


steadfast tin soldier

by twigcollins



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-29 16:16:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 88,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7691236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twigcollins/pseuds/twigcollins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soldier 76 comes in from the cold</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He reads a few of his obituaries, and they all start the same way. _Once upon a time in Indiana..._.

Mentioning the farm as if it were some bucolic wonderland. A nostalgic, sunlit place outside of time, with lemonade and tire swings and no words for tragedy.

Jack was a farmer’s son, on a working farm. He attached cows to the milk pumps in the heavy blue dark of every winter morning, with the metal so cold his hands would stick when he breathed on them. He waded through drifts in January and wore mud all through March and slapped away mosquitoes until the leaves fell. All of this while working machines in the field that could flay the skin off a careless man, could do the kind of damage he wouldn’t see again until his first year in the thick of the Crisis. 

It could be quiet, though, that was true enough. A lush and living sort of quiet, in the moments between choruses of frogs and crickets, with the wind rustling through the grain like a long, thoughtful tide, until it all rolled out slow into the damp-sweet smell of fresh reaping.

When he’d just turned eleven, a family on the other side of the county had died, an accident in their manure pit - the father falling in, the son going after him, and another son and farmhand quick to follow, all dead in a matter of moments. It was the right lesson to learn young - life is fragile, and good people can die for no reason at all.

Later that year, Jack had worked the farm next door for the lambing season - five dead before the first week was out, too weak for living, which was still less than they’d lost a few years before. Of course, foxes always came for the chickens, or hawks, or even a stray coyote now and then. 

Life is fragile, and there’s always someone looking to take advantage of that. 

Jack was hardly exempt from it, given his first knife right along with the belt to stick it in. Idle hands and all, and the farm needed the help, so he’d been taught to kill and pluck chickens, gut and clean the fish he caught, then rabbits - then a deer. Jack had been as happy as any boy could be, that first year he went hunting, and he’d gone out most years after for at least a few seasons - turkey, pheasant, duck - until he’d left the farm for good.

He wasn’t quite sixteen, the first time he’d nearly died - that heroic obituary almost truncated to the very first paragraph. It would be the closest he’d come to checking out before Mercy was there to patch him up.

Jack had been at the top of the silo, walking down the grain, with his attention on what looked like a spoiled patch near the far wall - and then the ground beneath his feet had just slid away, sucked him down and he’d barely had a chance to shout before he was under and gone, his whole body pinned and the grain as solid as stone around him, except for the torrent trying to sneak its way down his throat.

It was luck that saved him, nothing more. His father had seen him go down, and Jack had found just enough air, an angle to tip his head and a pocket to keep breathing in until they’d been able to dig him free. He’d dreamed of it for years afterward - of towering waves of darkness, and opening his mouth to scream only to feel the grains sweep in and down and bury him alive, packing his lungs until he woke shivering and coughing, soaked in sweat.

When his nightmares finally switched to the giant, killer robots, it was almost a relief.

So it’s always a little strange to him, when these people who don’t really know talk about the farming life as if it were some kind of paradise, with no resemblance to anything that came after.

Jack’s not going to say it wasn’t beautiful, at times it was nearly perfect - but it was never really bloodless.

——————————————

He’s there for the unveiling ceremony - the Overwatch Museum - just in case anyone feels like trying anything. At least that’s what he tells himself. He still doesn’t see it coming, when they pull the curtain back and there it is - there _he_ is. Jack Morrison, larger than life, standing guard over the remnants of everything they wouldn’t let him keep.

There’s a gift shop.

In the back of his mind Gabriel is laughing and laughing and laughing.

———————————

Jack watches from a distance, to make sure the girl gets home safe. Everyone should have a place like that to go back to, the glow from the house radiating out into the street and he can feel the warmth of it from where he stands.

Or maybe that’s just the parts of him that haven’t stopped smoldering yet. At least his ribs are nearly healed. Enough.

_You were a shit hero, and you’re even worse when you try not to be._

He sighs. At least he hadn’t lost too much time. With that minigun pointed at him, there hadn’t been much a chance to throw a tracker on the truck, but these aren’t exactly professionals, and they’re certainly not quiet. If he can’t pick up the trail by morning, it won’t be their fault. Just as a long shot, Jack pops the receiver from his back pocket, searches the bandwidth with a flick of his thumb - yes, there they are. Sending frantic messages to their superiors and not even bothering to hide the signal.

God bless the idiot henchmen. There are times they practically do the job for him.

He goes back to check the wreckage for more clues, because there’s little chance they didn’t leave something behind and the police can be dodged or bribed and it’ll take until morning for anyone really serious to show up - if this all doesn’t disappear under a tidy private contract. No doubt it’s been made worth a lot of people’s time to keep looking the other way.

Halfway there, he hears a garbled, electronic moan from the shadows and Jack knows it before he sees it - wounded Omnic, standard human-size. The bot’s been worked over pretty well - the violence against Omnics had never really gone away and there’s been flare up after flare up lately, and it might all just die down again but Jack knows better than to hold out hope.

_Dammit, Morrison. Leave it. You’ve done your good deed for the year. Get your head in the game._

The Omnic lets out a pathetic wheezing sound, a few sparks firing as he slumping forward - and yeah, Jack’s already moving to help. It’s late, there’s no one here to see him being a decent person, and he’ll make sure to punch the next round of thugs twice as hard.

_… or maybe there's a cat up a tree somewhere. Idiot._

Jack makes sure to be noticed before he gets too close, hears the whirr of the opticals taking in his outfit and the gun and he raises his hands slowly, palms out and empty.

“I’m not with them.” At least his Spanish is good enough for this. “I just want to help.”

It’s not exactly trustworthy from a man in a full face mask, but the Omnic’s in little shape to do much about it, and with a grinding noise and a swivel of gears he’s falling forward and Jack catches him before he can hit the ground.

“Lean on me. Is there somewhere I can take you?”

It surprised more than a few people, that Jack Morrison never really had a problem with Omnics. He’s never had much of a problem with anything that didn't have a problem with him first, and when things finally settled down it seemed clear the Omnics just wanted to live, to learn what living was all about like anyone else. It hardly makes him a saint - Jack’s still _aware_ of them, always, and any number of slight, mechanical sounds can leave him tensed and reaching for his gun before he thinks to check the motion. 

Jack used to worry, of course, that the Omnics were vulnerable in a way that humans weren’t, that they might turn on him again, might turn en masse against humanity whether they wanted to or not - but then there was Blackwatch and Switzerland, Amélie and Gabriel and what the hell does he think he knows about anything, really?

It's a human man that opens the door, gaping at Jack only for the moment it takes him to recognize who he’s carrying, and Jack’s Spanish isn’t good enough for most of the conversation that follows, as he helps the Omnic over the threshold and into the arms of someone who will help more than he can. Someone who cares. He catches a few words - hears the Omnic say something about repairs and expenses and the man has a hand around the back of that cabled neck, pulling him close, telling him it doesn’t matter - you’re safe, you’re home.

It’s a good moment to disappear unnoticed, and if Jack should drop a few bills on the floor as he silently shuts the door - well, accidents do happen.

_Well done - you’re like an ATM of failure._

Maybe he is, and maybe he has a gun that can stop a tank, if he aims right - and he usually does. He’s also managed to scorch a few blocks of the back half of Dorado and no one’s real happy about that, and a quick search of the aftermath ensures there’s going to be a few more things in a few less pieces before the dawn.

It’s quiet now, with the moon slowly on the rise - but that peace is all a lie. Whatever things look like here, however still it may be, the sun’s rising on the other side of the world and the people Soldier 76 needs to stop are already up and working hard to make sure he never will.


	2. Chapter 2

“… you know how many people even vote in your average US election?” Gabriel says. “I mean, by percentage of the population.”

“ _Later_ , Reyes.”

It’s time to run the gauntlet again, another trip to the UN for a public shaming pretending to be a hearing, walking through a crowd of protesters that used to be fans, not so long ago. Jack knows what’s happening - the tides have changed, and all those politicians who were so glad to shake their hands and pose on the front page are finding it more convenient now to look the other way, to pretend they’d never really been in favor of Overwatch. 

Jack keeps his expression blank and his eyes forward, ignoring the jeers and shouts and waving signs - background noise. He’s heard worse. He’s not about to say that anything they do is perfect. No organization ever is, but these people don’t seem to understand what they’re for, or how they operate, or even _care_ \- or realize that getting rid of Overwatch won’t also get rid of what’s prowling on the other side, the buffer zone he’s been working most of his life to maintain, to protect-

He jerks back, catching the movement from the corner of his eye, dodging out of reflex - but it’s Gabriel who plucks the bottle out of the air, and turns, staring out across a crowd that goes suddenly silent under the weight of his thousand-yard stare.

Jack feels the hair rise on the back of his neck, standing close enough to see Reyes’ eyes flicking back and forth in tiny, familiar movements - picking out targets in the crowd. The best options for the most chaos, for controlling the panicked mob as they try to escape. Maximum casualties.

“Stop it.” Jack snaps, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

Gabriel grins, the same reckless, vicious smile Jack has seen on a thousand battlefields - in ice and mud and midnight skies lit up like a desert noon - but never like this, never a part of the civilized world - and was that edge always there? It lingers at the corner of his mouth - hungry, and empty.

“Do you ever wonder if we might have saved these people a little _too_ well?”

—————————————-

Jack keeps up with the feeds wherever he’s at - local news and international wire and useful Twitter accounts from people who really ought to know better, along with several less accessible databases where they’re just now maybe realizing nobody ever cancelled the deceased Strike Commander’s security clearance. 

The rifle had been too high-profile to snatch unnoticed, but Jack needed it out of the hands he’s certain it had been destined for - and so the clock started ticking. If he hadn’t been marked before that, he certainly was now. No word yet in the public sphere, and he doubts they’ll ever bother - Jack Morrison works much better as a martyr, a vague sketch of noble sentiments in the shape of a man. 

It’s easy to be beloved when you’re no longer in the way.

He keeps an eye on all the watch lists, all the most wanted - domestic and international - and he’s got local police dispatch buzzing in his ear right now, the comforting steadiness of professional calm, stating the facts - _“be advised all units… shots fired downtown… two males heavily armed and dangerous proceeding down Main toward West 15th… subjects confirmed as Jamison Fawkes and Mako Rutledge.”_

Junkrat and Roadhog. Blown in like a bad storm. It looks like they might be robbing a bank - or at least blowing things up in the vicinity of a bank. Jack’s visor can bridge most of the gap from where he’s standing, a few miles away and seventy stories up - but there’s a lot of noise, smoke and fire - and there’s the SWAT team, dark vans coming up fast from the highway, another helicopter roaring in, passing right by the building Jack’s standing on and moving fast. 

It’s not going to be enough, he thinks, not even for basic containment. Crowd control, if they’re lucky, and if the two men get bored quickly and decide to wander off for greener and more flammable pastures. Where they’re from this is an average day, maybe even a little less challenging than they’re used to. Six blocks of downtown already look like a war zone - he sees the gout of fire, as another car explodes, though it takes an extra moment for the sound to reach him.

A man like Jack ought to be there. Herding the fight to a less populated location, figuring out what they might try for an escape route and ‘encouraging’ them to take it before moving in for containment. This is the kind of fight he grew up with - big and unanticipated and ugly, with the risk of heavy collateral damage. The police are doing their best, but they just don’t have the resources- they’re no Overwatch. No one is. 

People are going to die down there, if they haven’t already. Innocent people. A man like Jack…

He turns away, moving across the rooftop to the other side of the building. A tower too sleek and pretty to be considered an office complex half-built into a hillside, and just far enough from the city and at the wrong angle to the highway for most people to give it a second thought. A subsidiary of a subsidiary of a branch co-owned by your fine friends and neighbors at the Vishkar Corporation. Jack’s seen that name around more and more of late, and he likes it less each time.

What Roadhog and Junkrat are now is an unexpected opportunity, his best chance to infiltrate the building with everyone’s eyes elsewhere, and all external resources tied up and likely to ignore any alarm bells from private companies on the edge of their jurisdiction.

_“Officer down on Main. Ambulance attending. Fire and Rescue proceeding down Shaw, requesting backup. All northbound units fall back to support positions. Be advised, suspects are carrying heavy nonstandard modified munitions of unknown capacity.”_

His jaw clenches.

_Head in the game, Morrison. You keep stopping to put out every single fire, and they’ll have you just like they did before._

It’s been a few years now, and he’s still not entirely sure who ’they’ are. As if there’s really ever a ‘they’ at all.

It’s Talon, obviously - which means Blackwatch, whatever's left of them, along with several potential global conglomerates with the liquid assets and the wherewithal to hire or fund them. Government connections threading through the whole mess, to be sure - but even with everything that’s happened, Jack’s not quite paranoid enough to start stringing threads between pictures on any bulletin boards. With twenty years of perspective, he’s seen how these things operate - mutual patterns of overlapping self-interest between bastards big and small - temporary alliances that might look like some grand conspiracy at the right angles, but is mostly just the same old individual greed moving into momentary alignment.

The real mistake Jack made was ever thinking Overwatch existed outside their boundaries, that somehow he’d helped create something that big and that powerful that still stood outside the system, and wasn’t beholden to the same laws that governed every other group just like it.

Which is why he’s here now, alone.

“I believe that we may be of some use to each other.”

Or not. Jack has the gun up in a half a heartbeat, aware even as he’s turning that it’s already too slow, that if his opponent wanted to attack he’d already have two or three bullets in his back by now. 

No… he’d be impaled on a sword.

Genji Shimada he knows more by reputation and report than any time they’d spent together. Jack never had the chance to fight side-by-side with the man and Shimada was mostly covert ops anyway, used to working alone. Fighting his own blood back in his homeland- but whatever he might have felt about that, Shimada kept it to himself. No agent ever had much in the way of a private life, and so Jack didn’t push further where he didn’t have to, didn’t go where he wasn’t invited. He'd been mostly Gabe's anyway. When Genji had said he had to leave, a crisis of faith - there was really nothing to do but wish him the best.

A stroke of luck that he’d jumped ship when he had - journeying off to find himself in the middle of nowhere. Nowhere was a decent place to be when everything fell apart - and now, here they are again. Jack lowers the gun, but steps back enough that he might have half a chance if he needs it.

“Soldier 76, is it? It seems I’ve just won a considerable bet that you’re real.” Jack can hear the calm amusement in that rebuilt voice, remembers the particulars from one of the psych evals - he was man who preferred to take things lightly, and as a cyborg he kept to the habit. “But which country do you fight for, I wonder?”

“I’m just a soldier.” Jack says, hazarding a guess. “You work for the Omnics?”

“I’m doing a favor for a friend.” Shimada says. “He believes these people may have some interesting information. Considering your presence here, I assume it must be very interesting indeed.”

Omnics it is, then. Jack hadn’t been entirely sure what he’d find here, only that it was valuable and he ought to know it. Vishkar has proxy companies and satellite holdings across the globe, poking at all sorts of things that would almost certainly be better left alone. With everything they’ve thrown at it, all the research, the technology is _still_ not fully understood - what went wrong, why exactly it went wrong. Why some Omnics fight and the others don’t - and the ones that don’t say it can’t happen again, not like the Crisis, but Jack knows there’s a perpetual arms race going on just beneath the surface, between encryption and override and a whole lot of people who wouldn’t mind the key to an robot army of their own.

How much might the Shimada clan pay, to have such a weapon for an obedient son? 

\- _He’s standing in the middle of a receiving line among diplomats and royalty, in a suit that doesn’t quite fit right even though it was supposed to be bespoke. He wanted to wear the uniform but they wouldn’t let him, so he’s tugging down the end of his sleeve for the hundredth time because he’s in Paris, in _Paris_ and most of the time Jack doesn’t feel like a hayseed, confident he can fit in just about anywhere but this is Paris and has he ever been anywhere quite like it? Live musicians in the corner and candles everywhere that isn’t covered in gold and every woman more elegant than the one before, looking him over as if he’s a little boy in his father’s shoes and then he hears a light, beautiful laugh, and a slim hand alights on his arm._

_“Are you really ‘im, then? Our grand ‘ero of the Omnic War?”_

_“Crisis.” The correction is a reflex, because no one had ever actually declared war, but he’d never tell a woman this stunning she was wrong on purpose. He remembers lying on the floor in front of the TV doing homework, while his mother watched and re-watched Roman Holiday, until Jack could have been Gregory Peck’s understudy - and that’s what he thinks of, looking at the woman before him. Glamour and grace and all of it effortless, and the only thing that takes the barest edge off her imposing regality is the slight look of mischief in her smile._

_“Jack Morrison, ma’am.” Mercifully, he stops himself from saluting._

_A man equally as handsome as the woman is steps up to her side, smiling. “Who are you torturing now, _cherie_?”_

_“My new friend, Jack.” She smiles. On her lips, his name sounds brand-new, a word he’s never heard before. “Shall I introduce you? Jack Morrison, my ‘usband Gérard Lacroix. My name is Amélie.”_ \- 

He and Genji both look back toward the city, at the sound of another explosion, the sirens and car alarms like a distant forest of chirping crickets.

“The building plans say our best chances are on floor seventeen and floor forty-eight.” Jack says. “Forty-eight’s right above the main lab, with a few possible routes in that might be hiding backup themselves…”

“… and seventeen is the auxiliary data storage, with what looks like at least one hidden room, and the CDO’s office in an adjoining suite.” Genji says, no doubt reading the same plans on the inside of his own visor. “Two potential targets, two of us - shall we divide and conquer? It does neither of us any harm to share the information we recover - and we might flip a coin for any interesting souvenirs?”

It would be much easier this way, take less time, and reduce the chances of getting caught. Jack isn’t exactly made for cat burglary, and hadn’t been looking forward to having to try for two floors so far apart. He still can’t hear Shimada moving, even standing this close. They might get out without anyone ever knowing they were ever there.

_So much for your army of one._

He’ll do whatever it takes to get the job done, that’s the point. 

Jack nods. “Fine.”

“So… it’s a race, then.” Genji says, giving a little flick of his fingers in salute. “ _Ganbatte, ronin._ ”

With a lack of fanfare that is, in a way, _entirely_ fanfare, he steps backward off the roof, dropping fifty stories without a sound. Jack sighs.

“Goddamn show-off cyborgs.”

His own descent is much less impressive, but it works, rappelling down the side of the building in a few quick movements. The police dispatch has only grown more insistent, and rises up again in the silence. 

_“Ambulance blocked on Cargill, attempting alternate route on Willow. We have multiple parties trapped the roof at 273 and 275 Main. Fire and Rescue attending. Helicopter down at Highland and West Fifth…”_

On this side, the building is all windows, each pane taller than he is. Right now, they’re more like mirrors, though Jack can see only a hint of his outline. Everything else is smudged by shadows - a blank, dark space where the rest of him ought to be.

Jack switches off the radio, and gets to work.

————————————-

One good thing about being dead - no more interviews. Jack had never been good at them, and even worse because everyone just assumed he would be. Years of practice and even a few professional coaches had only dragged him from stilted to passable. When he did talk, it was mostly to follow whatever script he’d been given. The press even used to make fun of him for it, on slow news days - but no one remembers that anymore.

Jack was photogenic, but not particularly personable - laconic was the complimentary term, and Ana would always give him hell, that if he were a woman no one would be impressed by so many one-word answers. 

The press forgave him for it, of course, because his actions spoke louder than his words and were more interesting to write about. He looked good enough in the uniform for photo ops, and Gabriel Reyes, charisma bomb, was there to make up for any other failings. Jack was happy to just stand back and watch it happen.

No one remembers that, either. He was the one people might have respected - but Reyes was the one people actually wanted to be around.

_“What kind of a name is ‘Jack Morrison’ anyway? It’s like they built you from a kit."_

Which was how they met - with Jack being heckled loudly from across a crowded cafeteria, and when his eyes snapped up and the room had gone quiet, Gabriel been grinning back, friendly and also half-hoping for the fight, welcoming it if it came. The way things always were between them, never a dull moment when there could be a jab, and why ever stop at one? 

Jack had been the responsible one, level-headed in any situation - _prom king, head boy and fucking hall monitor all in one_. Ana was the brains, the anchor, and they’d only realized how much once she was gone - but Gabriel, he had always been the heart. 

In that interview he’ll never give, Jack would make sure they understood that - no one had loved Overwatch more than Reyes, no one believed in it more, and all the time it had been falling apart, all the time those friendly taunts were losing their shine - _useless government mouthpiece_ \- and turning into something bitter and Jack was too busy, too preoccupied with the job to step back and actually _see_ the job - _just how far is their hand up your ass this time, Morrison?_ \- he thinks that Gabriel still held on, that whatever had happened - the love went last.

Jack knows exactly what they’d ask, those imaginary reporters. Feigning sincerity the way they did in those final days, before Overwatch was barred from giving any more interviews. False sympathy with real teeth, because an apology was good but finding out he was lying, or at least making it look that way - well, which sold more, heroism or scandal?

_“When did you first realize that something was wrong with Gabriel Reyes?”_

As if he hasn’t spent a thousand sleepless hours trying to answer that question for himself, staring at whatever ceiling he happened to be under, wondering when he could have seen it, when it might have been early enough to matter. When he’s not even sure what it was that went so wrong.

Of course he remembers that day before the UN meeting, remembers the hard, flat light and the way the crowd seemed two-dimensional, like a painted backdrop and Gabriel’s eyes glittering as they moved, the tiniest fraction of an inch as he swept the square clean.

He remembers the moment from an argument that could have happened before or after, honestly, for how little that script bothered to change at the end. - _the people are not our enemy, Reyes - the freely-elected government of the people is not our enemy-_ and Gabriel had just looked at him with something like hate and something like pity and _oh, Jack._

Oh, Jack.

It takes him a long time, to think of the soccer game. The sort of subtle intimation he can barely explain to a reporter, even one that’s only in his head.

No one now really considers the days just after the Crisis ended, as if it all just went back to normal with fireworks and ticker-tape parades but Jack remembers the missions getting even longer, one after the next and criss-crossing the globe, making sure the places that had been cracked by chaos didn’t fall completely apart.

It had been at the end of one of these that he and Gabriel and Ana had stumbled into the bar somewhere past the edge of… Kolkata, maybe? Chased in by the heat, jittery and jet-lagged and technically on leave although that would end long before any of them had the chance to really get their bearings. They’d been like a pack, more than friends by that point - it was disorienting anytime he looked up and didn’t have one of them at his side, watching his six.

Ana didn’t drink, but Jack and Gabriel were happy to pick up her share to keep the bartender at bay, and she had been tired enough to fall asleep right at the bar, head down on her folded arms, in between where they sat and sipped their beers and watched a soccer match being broadcast on a janky satellite feed from some other distant corner of the globe, the reception so bad he swore they were all on the same team.

Jack cheered for the Hoosiers out of a vague sense of loyalty, and that was all he’d needed, but it seemed like ninety percent of the people he fought with were somewhere between rabid soccer fan - _football, Morrison, it's called football_ \- and face-painting rabid soccer fan. Even Gabriel owned multiple jerseys - home, away, training, _prematch_ training? - and didn’t ever understand why Jack made that face. 

So he’d grown used to sitting down and watching tiny figures run around on green fields, occasionally raising his glass to toast whenever everyone started cheering, or humming along with the chants that were mostly inarticulate except for the swearing.

He was half-drunk, half-asleep and trying not to list too far in either direction when he heard Gabriel chuckle.

“It’s us.” He said, and pointed to the screen with the neck of his beer when it was clear Jack wasn’t following. “Look.”

Jack forced himself to focus on the screen, though it didn’t seem much different than any other game. The teams appeared to be fairly well matched, and as he watched they never got near the goal - never got much past the center line, kicks blocked and passes intercepted from one side to the other and back again.

“See… the field, that’s history. All of time, everything we’re gonna get to see or do.” Gabriel rarely got drunk, at least enough to show it, but Jack could hear the slight slur in his words then. “The game, that’s us and the Omnics, or us and the insurgents. Or us and… whoever the fuck we’re fighting next. The ball goes five meters one way, five the other, and back - and that’s our life, that’s everything we’ll ever be a part of. Our great contribution. Giving all we’ve got just to kick that ball five goddamn meters before it gets kicked right back.”

At the time, Jack hadn’t thought much of it. Maybe he’d said something - five meters was better than nothing - or maybe he hadn’t, and maybe Gabriel had shrugged or maybe he hadn’t and they’d sat there until Ana woke up abruptly, demanding her weight in peshwari naan. 

Gabriel never mentioned it again, and Jack hadn’t thought of the moment for years - but looking back now, down to that last, flashpoint second in Switzerland, when he and Gabriel _both_ realized they’d been thoroughly fucked by the powers that be, that someone somewhere ran the numbers and decided the entire operation and its squabbling leaders had reached the end of their utility - maybe that was all it took?

In his mind’s eye, Jack can see the whole scope of it, just before the building went up. He’s taking cover behind the remains of a piece of modern art in the lobby that looked better at that moment than it ever had before. Across the atrium, behind his own bit of cover is Gabriel, reloading. The lights are flickering, and all the windows around them are already smashed to nothing but frames of a jagged sky, everything destroyed by the firefight - and there they are in the middle of it, with a small patch of empty space between them. How much more than five meters? Not so much, not at all.

Gabriel Reyes wanted more. He wanted more than a statue and a salute and his name on a plaque somewhere, one more champion of the status quo. He wanted more than five meters of history, of kicking the ball just that little bit forward before it was time to pass it on. Gabriel wanted change, he wanted it to _last_ , and he was willing to destroy his life and Jack’s life, Overwatch and Blackwatch and whatever else it took to make that happen.

He still is.


	3. Chapter 3

When you have more than one favorite restaurant in thirteen different time zones, the world gets surprisingly small.

The moments that still stagger him the most are the mundane ones - not the big cities, but the little towns he’ll cross through, places he’d been as Strike Commander Jack Morrison or even earlier than that, just Lieutenant Morrison out there in the great big world. Unimpressive stretches of oddly familiar scenery, or train stations he hasn’t seen in ten years that haven’t changed at all, down to the graffiti on the walls and the broken vending machines.

Home had, more often than not, been one Overwatch base or another, and now it's a series of blank-walled safe houses with little to offer but survival. Tiny spaces tucked away here and there where no one goes looking, some of them with extra tech and ammo from floor to ceiling while others are barely a room and a sink and a flickering bare bulb, with a bug-out bag and a gun or two carefully hidden under the floorboards. Jack’s on his own now - no matter what, whoever he’s after will be better armed, better funded, with far more backup. All he has on his side is time, patience and planning.

And the pulse rifle. And the Helix rockets. And the somewhat ungodly amount of ammunition he’d managed to raid from several former Overwatch outposts and tuck away like a squirrel for nuclear winter.

Jack carries two different visors - his usual, and one with all the tech packed down into a pair of sunglasses that look little different from a normal pair at first glance. It lacks the full capabilities of his combat rig, but then again he can’t exactly go out for breakfast fully armed, either. When he can’t be Soldier 76, he carries his pistol in a well-concealed holster and tries not to grit his teeth the entire time he’s outside, feeling exposed without the rifle in his hand, without the steady, comforting weight of his body armor.

It would be so very easy to slip away, to let himself become a thing of bullets and shadows. There's a logic to it, but something in him always balks at the thought, refusing to commit- and so every now and then Jack forces himself to be vulnerable, and go back out into the world.

He is whomever he needs to be, for whatever is most tactically useful at the time. The young woman who runs the coffeeshop near his Italian safe house believes he’s a multimillionaire via some vaguely uninteresting trade - paint? fasteners? - who retired to become an art dealer, The man who runs the best ramen restaurant near his Japanese safe house thinks he used to be in finance- and keeps trying to cadge stock tips in between setting him up with an unmarried niece. In Hong Kong, he owns real estate in New York. In New York, he owns real estate in Hong Kong. 

He smiles, and makes small talk in expensive suits, and people happily hand over building plans and detailed schedules and oh, yes sir, a new copy of that hotel keycard he must have misplaced. No problem, sir. Have a nice day.

It’s much easier blending in than when he was younger, easier to make people think vaguely obliging thoughts toward the old man with the scars - _poor thing, it must have been a terrible accident_ \- and then forget he was ever there. When he _really_ needs to sell the 'slightly fragile aging gentleman' look, Jack uses a cane.

He’s even - astonishingly - played Former Military Operative With Possible Mercenary Ties on a few occasions, picking up some useful gossip from men who were attempting to do exactly the same to him, trying to figure out who he represented and what it meant for their own plans.

A long career as Strike Commander provides Jack with a fairly decent read on most people, backed up by how _exceedingly_ few fucks he has left to give - too few to be intimidated by anything Soldier 76 has yet to come across. Or that he doesn’t care as much as he used to if things devolve into kicking answers out of deserving individuals in back alleys.

Occasionally, the cane comes in handy there, too.

“Misha! Come, sit with me.”

Jack tries not to think of Moscow as his favorite safe house, but he’s always had a bit of a soft spot for Russia, ever since the Crisis, and Kuznetsov’s relentless good cheer is the closest thing he has now to anything like friendship, one slim tie to bind him to the world.

It had been an accidental meeting, a few months spent in the city testing himself out on the local gangsters, seeing how far he could work his way up the ladder and how many people with ties to Talon he could kick off along the way. A strange moment of self-destructive curiosity had inspired him to take a field trip to one of the former Watchpoints nearby - he’d never been involved much with that side of things, except to watch the scientists try to one-up each other for larger budgets during the quarterly reviews.

The Watchpoint was a long-abandoned, muddy carcass, everything of value taken by whoever took over when Overwatch collapsed, and everything else pried up by enterprising individuals who might make a few rubles off the scrap. Jack had stood there for a long, long time inside the poor, gutted station, watching the wind blow through the rusting beams - and then he’d went back to Moscow and gotten titanically hammered at the first bar he could find.

He’s lucky the one he’d picked had belonged to Kuznetsov, and that the man had been kind enough at the end of the night to help Jack to the couch he kept in back, kind enough to make him coffee strong enough to stick to the cup in the morning. Jack makes sure his real business stays far away, and tells himself every time that he doesn’t really need to go back. Moscow has enough bars, he can spend his money in a thousand other places where they won’t remember his name even as they’re serving him.

_Stupid risk, for no reward. You’re in no position to be sentimental._

Yet if he ends up chasing a lead to the city, he’ll eventually end up back at the bar.

“I knew you would be coming today, Misha.” Kuznetsov chuckles. “You’re always here when the weather is bad.”

Jack’s not entirely sure what name he even used to pick up that nickname, but Kuznetsov calls no one who walks in by anything that isn’t -chka or -ushk or -sha. His Russian is good, though there’s no reason to advertise it, and Jack keeps mostly to a few of the more familiar, soldier words - yes, no, это пиздец. The both of them are ex-military - Kuznetsov’s division tattoo takes up most of his arm, though they never talk about it directly. No questions about who was where or why. The nickname, the way Kuznetsov looks at him sometimes, sad and friendly, makes Jack wonder who he must look like, some comrade lost on some long-ago battlefield. He wonders what story the bartender’s decided on for the old American spending bits of his golden years teetering slowly around the countryside.

Kuznetsov pours the shots, and they both do the drinking. The nearby TV spills over with brightly colored news of the world - South Korea at the moment, and another glamour shot on one of those mechanized suits of theirs, and its pilot. The bright pink probably makes her easier for her own team to spot her, and Omnic forces are notoriously good at not giving a tattered shit for camouflage. The great gamer experiment’s worked out well for them, by all accounts - and for this pilot in particular, as she poses with her mech for some sort of red carpet event. It’s good press for the military, a burst of hope and patriotism for the nation - and hell, she’s still young enough to enjoy the attention herself, smiling and waving happily to a crowd of screaming fans. 

“Look at them.” Kuznetsov says with wry cheer. “Children, eh? Always the young, they don’t know any better. At least those suits of theirs look fancy. I’d rather fight in pink than in what we got.”

“I don’t know.” Jack says. “It could have been worse. The first tank they gave me was the best damn lawnmower I ever had.”

Kuznetsov laughs loudly at that - and with two shots of vodka in him, Jack feels a little better himself. It’s all been this grim before. At the start of the Omnic Crisis, they’d been stupidly underpowered and had gone out anyway, brave fools not knowing any better. It had been such a shitshow early on, and if they’d taken just a few more casualties before they figured themselves out, if a few key battles had gone a little differently… who knows? 

_It’s been this bad, and you survived. You won._

Maybe it isn’t just the rest of the world who’s forgetting how it used to be.

The news keeps going - presidents meeting prime ministers, heads of state shaking hands with congressmen - already one good iteration past anyone Jack had known in person. A video clip from a protest for the rights of Omnics and humans to marry - god bless them for trying, especially with things as they are, but damned if that’s not going to be the toughest row to hoe. Kuznetsov grumbles a little beside him - Russian relations with Omnics are by far the worst, but they’d also seen the first and the worst of the damage - and still are, in a few hot spots. Jack can’t really blame them for their reluctance or suspicion.

He’s three shots in by now, and there really shouldn’t be a fourth, even with his heightened tolerance - and there won’t be, as Jack watches the next story flash across the screen. A bit of splotchy security camera footage from somewhere in… it doesn’t really matter. What matters is the close up shot they’d managed to grab - a single frame slightly less blurry than the rest - a towering figure in a mask of what could be bone or steel, with a long, dark cape flowing down around him.

“Ach, that's a bad business. Men in costumes, shooting people in the streets?” Kuznetsov frowns. “What, our lives are so good now, we need someone to make us all new problems?”

“Who knows?” Jack says, but he does know. At least enough. Gabriel Reyes is a flat-out killer now, an assassin for hire or for his own enjoyment or both - and whatever else he is, it isn’t human. 

No cyborg - he doesn’t move like a cyborg, doesn’t… he comes _apart_ in the fight, like dust or smoke, something ephemeral. Jack’s seen the footage, classified views of this ambush or that civil war - Gabriel taking full rounds straight to the chest, the head - he’s in the middle of bombs and fire and whatever else they can throw at him and he walks out of it clean. The worst of it Jack hasn’t even seen, only the casualty reports - his victims desiccated, dried out and drained of life by heavy radiation or some catastrophic chemical reaction or whatever new Horsemen were being dreamed up for the next apocalypse.

Jack thinks of a long, flat road in an empty part of the world, of Gabriel stretching out in the back of a Jeep while he drove and Ana took shotgun, his massive arms easily stretching past the ends of the seat on either side. Of Gabriel tipping his head back and laughing loud and long at something Ana had said, or maybe at nothing at all. Maybe just the pleasure of being alive in a car with the top down on a sunny day.

_Jesus, Gabe. Jesus, what did you do?_

… and how the hell is Jack going to stop him? Other than just throwing everything he’s got and hoping something sticks.

The one grimly satisfying truth he holds onto, is that Talon almost certainly thinks it has Reyes on their side, or at least in their control - and Jack knows how disastrously wrong they are, on both counts. He shouldn’t enjoy it so much, imagining what will happen when they find that out.

He needs to stop Gabriel. If he can’t stop Talon, Jack at least needs to cripple them badly enough that their competition can keep them torn down to a manageable size. If Vishkar is in bed with either of them - and is there any chance they’re not? - then Jack needs to make them reconsider their choices. 

And if he manages to stop the unkillable assassin, topple the immensely powerful international terrorist organization _and_ successfully rebuke the multinational conglomerate? 

North. Maybe when the dust settles, he’ll just go north and keep going. Up where it’s too cold for most anyone else to bother with, and he’ll build himself a little cabin and cook whatever he hunts and let the world forget whatever it still remembers of him. 

_… and one day, maybe he’ll be chopping wood or mending a fence, his breath clouding around him. Maybe he'll catch movement near the ridge line - a deer, or an owl - but it will be Ana standing there, arms crossed. Wearing her winter gear like fine silks, with that crooked, knowing smile of hers, the one that can’t wait not to take any of his shit -_ "they couldn’t blow you up, Morrison, and you think they could shoot me?' _\- and she’ll walk down to him slowly, and he’ll see the footprints in the snow behind her that means she’s real._

It’s his favorite lie, the best one he knows. But this isn’t going to be like the Crisis, not again. There’s no exit strategy, no honorable or dishonorable discharge - no cabin where Ana won’t ever be. Jack does this until the day he makes a mistake or they get lucky, and that’s all there is.

“Misha.” Kuznetsov says. “That face you are making now. You know what that face says to me?”

He can guess. “More vodka?”

“You are a very smart man. Not just for an American.”

————————

It takes him the better part of two years, but Jack finally does it. Makes the connections, follows the money, gets the name. Rides the elevator up to the top of the shiny new corporate entity with the trendy little sans-serif logo. Steps into the office and locks the door behind him before the man standing behind his fancy desk has a chance to look up.

He does, mouth half-open, already starting to chastise his secretary for coming in unannounced - and his jaw drops and he freezes, because even a corporate shark stops swimming when there’s a masked man with a gun the size of small copy machine pointed at him.

“A… are those rockets?” 

“Yep.” Jack says, and watches as the man very subtly pushes an emergency alarm on the underside of his desk that Jack disabled when he’d cased the office last night. The funny thing about being ex-military is that you tend to know a lot of the people who get hired to set up the security for people just like this, and they talk about how they do what they do. After a moment, he notices Jack can see what he’s doing, and his eyes go to the phone on his desk.

“Your secretary is on her lunch break.” He says. “Also, I cut the line. Go for the phone in your pocket, and you lose your arm.” Jack takes a step forward. Nice plush carpeting. Thick wood on the walls, one way windows. Nothing but file rooms on the floor directly below, so the CEO can ensure he won’t ever be disturbed.

“L-listen, I d-don’t-“ The man swallows, and then steadies himself, what’s must be hours of aggrandizing corporate self-help audiotapes finally paying a few weak dividends. “Listen, I don’t know what misconception you’re harboring under, but a hundred percent of what's all around you is venture capital. I’m going to assume you’re not a pissed-off employee from the call center, but I…” He starts to move, but a twitch of Jack’s rifle is enough to tamper down that sudden blaze of confidence. “Whatever you’re after here, I can’t give it to you.”

“Funny,” Jack says, calmly. “I have about thirty pounds of files that say otherwise.”

“What?”

“Go stand by the window.”

“What?” The man says, a little more fear in his voice, but Jack doesn’t repeat himself. It’s not strictly necessary to put him there, Jack could have sat him in a chair or by the bookcase, but he likes the little glances the man keeps making over his shoulder, toward the glass, as if he’s not sure where the worst part of this is going to come from anymore, but that’s it’s going to be bad.

Jack slips the USB drive into the computer - base-line Overwatch crack-and-grab tech, they’d had to stop Winston from giving them out as stocking stuffers. 

God, Winston. If anyone got screwed the hardest by everything went down, Jack’s vote is with the brilliant, funny, caring scientist who just happened to be a 380-pound gorilla. He keeps an eye out for any scrap of good news in that direction, but there’s been nothing, no word at all. Winston’s vanished into the reclusive space that’s good for little more than an occasional, fruitless investigative report or an easy answer on a game show.

_“I’ll take ‘dead heroes and the friends they brought down with them along the way’ for five hundred, Alex.”_

“Wait, you can’t just - those files-“ The man protests, and Jack flips a switch to get the gun humming. It’s just a backup cooling system, nothing but noise, but no one else has to know that. Frankly, Jack doesn’t need anything from these corporate archives, or expect to get much out of them but that’s hardly a reason to stop.

“I saw you on the news. ‘Young congressman parlays connections into tech company success’.” Jack says. “How do you like it, being in the private sector? Do you sleep well at night?”

“Listen,” The man makes a second attempt at bravery, “I don’t know who you think you are but I know people, and-“

Jack laughs. God, it’s been a while since he’s held off from punching assholes in the face long enough for them to talk, but just like the scenery it hasn’t changed at all. The bargaining. The threats.

“You do know people. You used to know even more of them, a few years back.”

The man’s face freezes, falls, a numbed mask.

“I… don’t…”

“Try again.” Jack says, all ice now.

“Overwatch.” He whispers the word as if it’s a curse, as if will call down some horrible fate. “I don’t know anything about Overwatch.”

“Now, I don’t see how that can be true. As I understand it, you were right there in the middle of it. An official liaison from the government. Maybe not the most flashy job, but you did get some perks out of it. Decent travel reimbursements. A way to impress your dates.” He says. “Security clearance.”

"Who are you?"

Jack keeps the gun on him, and lifts the visor away from his face, and waits to hear the gasp.

“C-Commander M-m-“

“I know my own name.” Jack says, sliding the visor back into place. “What I want to hear from you is who you sold us out to.”

“I-I don’t.. I…”

One step forward, and Jack has him pinned against the window by the muzzle of the rifle, half-lifting him off the ground.

“Are you really going to make me ask again?”

“I don’t… I don’t know who it was. I swear to God I don’t know.” The man blurts out - and he’s sweating now, running rivulets into his well-pressed suit. “We n-never spoke in person. The voice was… modded, altered. It could have been anyone There was a phone, they gave me a phone to use. Untraceable. It was - I destroyed it, after…” He gasps. “You don’t understand. You don’t know what they had on me. I had… there were debts, I had this… shit, I _needed_ to-“

“You need to tell me who else was involved.” Jack says. “How many other people were there? How did they get the bombs in?

“What?” The man says, confused. “What do you mean?”

“The explosion.” Jack says, trying to keep the snarl out of his voice. “Who set it up? Blackwatch? How did they get inside without being seen?”

The man stares at him, confusion turning to something else, something worse - Jack’s missing an unexpected piece, for this late in the game - and it’s about to slide into place, and he’s not going to like it.

“I d-didn’t. There weren’t any explosives to… I mean, they were already there, inside. When the building was built. The man on the phone, they just wanted the access codes, they wanted to know how to set up-“ 

Jack punches him. Not quite hard enough to break his jaw, though not because he was trying to hold back. He can’t hear anything for a moment, a roaring in his ears like all the times an Omnic self-destructed too close, and the whole world slides a little under his feet, a ship in a sudden storm- 

_Already there. In with the foundation. From the moment Overwatch started, from the moment…_

It can’t be, that's bullshit - but why can’t it be? It wouldn’t be all that difficult. Change a blueprint to erase a subbasement, reroute an AI so it never sees the space in its systems, it doesn’t know there’s anything to miss. Keep the secret, just in case. Shake the Commander’s hand and smile.

_You already knew you were out of allies. What does this change?_

Jack had known from the start it wasn’t Gabriel, had seen that last, stunned moment of surprise before - but he assumed it had come from his people, that whomever had been supplying Blackwatch - Talon, why wouldn’t it be Talon? - had decided the opportunity to take out Jack Morrison was too good to give up, or taking them both out would be beneficial enough to be worth the loss of Reyes. These were not nice people, or fair - and anyone was expendable, could be swept from the board if the circumstances were favorable enough. 

Jack hadn’t ruled out, though, that it might have come from his side. Some failsafe they’d dragged into place for a worst case scenario, and maybe they thought Reyes had killed him already, or someone had panicked and they couldn’t dare admit to blowing up their hero - stupider things had happened in the middle of a firefight. 

In his bitterest moments - recovering just far enough to be conscious while Overwatch was being disbanded, watching it play out alongside his own funeral, realizing that they’d used his death as the excuse to pack it all up - Jack wondered if it had all happened exactly as planned. If he and Gabriel had ended up in Switzerland because it was better for everyone if the lunatic and the boy scout just disappeared.

_So it’s as bad as you thought. So what?_

No. _No_ , there was a difference between a last resort, between some Talon agent in the government making a persuasive argument or a group of world leaders panicking themselves stupid and - the bomb had _always been there_. Every day Jack spent working for them, every night he’d dragged himself into the early hours trying to find solutions, to solve problems and fight the good fight and that inevitable end had always been waiting, right under his feet. He’d never been trusted. Overwatch had _always_ been the enemy.

Talon wanted to destroy them, but his own people made it easy.

“Are there more of them? More bombs?”

“How would I know? I hope so.” Pain and panic have rendered the man momentarily, suicidally brave. His face twists with scorn. “What, you think they were just going to let you all run around without a tether? Superhumans and talking monkeys and… and… all of you freaks?”

“Stop.” Jack says, because the anger’s coming back harder than he thought it would, pooling in his muscles with a molten weight and he doesn’t want to shoot this man anymore - Jack wants to put the gun down and end this with his bare hands, listen to bones crunch and tendons pop and watch the life trickle out of him. He’s terrified by the relief that washes over him at the thought, how badly he just wants to let it happen. “You really want to stop talking now.”

He’s a politician, though. When do they ever stop? Especially when it’s a smart idea.

“You were on your way out anyway, Morrison, and you know it. It was all over. Everyone else could read the writing on the wall except for _you_.”

“It’s dead.” Jack says, and for just a moment, all the words come easy. “You fucking idiots. It’s all _gone_. Not just the parts they wanted to get rid of, not just the shit they protested against - you dismantled all the Ecopoints, all the goddamned - that had _nothing_ to do with Blackwatch! It wasn’t supposed to die with me! It wasn’t all supposed to disappear! How did you - why would you let this happen?” It strikes him, very clearly in the moment, the sheer power of inaction. Of just stepping back and standing aside. “You let this happen. You just sat back and did nothing and you fucking _watched_.”

Which is ever so slightly ironic, in a way that’s not funny at all. The man looks a little defiant, and behind that there’s a lot of shame, and Jack tries and fails to care about either of those things. It wouldn’t make a difference if the man dropped to his knees and begged for forgiveness, would it? it wouldn’t change a thing. Why did Jack ever come here? Why did he think it would matter?

 _It was already there. Already there, right from the start._ The thought knocks back and forth inside of him ruthlessly, like the clapper in a bell.

“So… now you know.” The man says, shoulders a little hunched, still cradling his jaw. Bracing himself. “What comes next? You’re going to kill me? Or are you going to hurt me first?”

The anger is bleeding away - and there’s absolutely nothing in its place. Jack shouldn’t have come here. He was better off not knowing. 

“I’m really not what you should be worried about.” He says. “If I could put this all together, so can Gabriel Reyes.”

The last man Jack had seen turn _that_ white bled out a few moments later - and that had been Gabriel’s doing as well. The man sways where he stands.

“ _Reyes_ is _alive_?” It’s the whisper of someone who’s read at least a few pages of the Blackwatch archives. “You have to… you have to help me.”

Jack wants to laugh, but it sticks in his throat. 

“Who are you talking to? No one’s here. Overwatch is gone, and Jack Morrison is dead. He’s been dead for years.”

Forty-eight hours after Jack leaves the building, the man’s body turns up near the border, nearly three states away. A drained, twisted shell of a corpse, in a rental car with the doors locked and the engine still running. Broad daylight - no witnesses and no suspects, as if there’s any question of who was responsible.

Which is when he realizes Gabriel already knew. Knew it all, and was just waiting for Jack to catch up.

———————————

It hardly matters that he’s halfway around the world, the news goes global within minutes - the assassination of Tekhartha Mondatta. A little more digging for Jack to find the raw CCTV feeds, to see enough to know the rest, how it all went down and who was to blame. 

Riots in the streets, little pockets of fury all over the world, and candlelight vigils everywhere else. Crying people and robots with their lights all dimmed - what he’s come to understand as a sign of mourning - and Lena Oxton, looking pale and miserable, head down and turning away from the cameras as she’s escorted into a blank-faced government building, to tell a story everyone already knows. 

Good people die. A man preaches peace with an open hand, and people line up to gun him down. 

The world’s funny like that.

The message reaches him less than an hour later. Multiple dummy accounts are good for easily shedding what gets compromised, and Jack’s grown accustomed to dumping them at the slightest hint of trouble - but this one is a simple invitation from someone slightly less than a stranger.

_Payback, ronin. You in?_

Which is how, six hours after that, Jack is sitting in a heavily modified helicopter with Genji Shimada and five of the most quietly terrifying Omnics he’s ever seen.


	4. Chapter 4

The helicopter is massive, steady and near-silent as it skims down low over the sea, and even Jack’s visor has trouble picking out anything of interest between the depthless waters and an empty, moonless sky. Genji sits at the front of the hold, facing backward in a lazy slouch that still manages to carry a considerable air of focus and even more considerable anger, carefully leashed to the task ahead. Jack sits on one of the two benches that stretch out along each side of the copter - and laying at the other end of both, and at his feet, and bracketing Genji like a pair of dark, living armrests are Omnics like nothing else he's seen in the wild.

Oh, the shape is familiar enough. The Omnics of today mostly try to look human, but during the Crisis they came in any number of strange configurations, quickly refined to any shapes best suited for battle. These are definitely war machines, modeled after tigers, or some other great cat, although no living creature ever looked quite this sleek or smooth or unquestionably deadly. Jack can see his reflection in their paneling, though his visor has little more to tell him about their composition than it did about the sea - carbon fiber and kevlar weave, in a pattern more complicated than any he’s seen before, but that’s only on the parts that don’t look truly expensive. The rest is all blank spots and question marks.

The Omnics swear, of course, that they have no new Omniums, that they’re not stockpiling any ‘citizens’ - they build them individually, as per regulations - one in for every one out, a replacement for those Omnics in the world that suffer from the increasing number of ‘incidents’ or some other actual misfortune, but never any more.

Jack’s always figured it was an unenforceable edict. Even at its peak Overwatch had never been able to prove a solid yes or no on what the Omnics might be doing behind the scenes. He remembers the panic room sessions all throughout the Crisis, talk of geometric growth progressions and exponential evolution. Robots building robots, smarter and faster and better, with fewer weaknesses in every iteration and no human error or human pride to slow down the process.

Six years have passed since Jack’s had the sort of intelligence gathering that Overwatch could provide, and that’s an entirely different span of time when you’re cycling at Omnic speed.

Entire sections of the Internet are devoted to apocalyptic stories of the supposed hidden robot supercity - right under Numbani, or carved out of a mountain range somewhere near the Shambali. Some huge cavern, deep underground, because what do they need light for? Where they’re building, and getting stronger, and lining up an army far more powerful than the last. It’s mostly nonsense - even if there are questions and suspicions, the Omnics can’t build new machines out of nothing, and there was never a sign of the resources being shuffled around that creating such a force would require.

Still, the Omnics in front of him now are proof that somewhere, _something_ is happening.

Jack hates any suggestion of a Second Omnic Crisis - and even in the few hours since Mondatta’s death he’s already heard it more times than he can count. The difference is, the first time around it hit the world without warning, and there was nothing they could do to stop it. This time, if things go south it’s going to be at least partly on humanity - and if they do pick this fight, if the war plays itself out again, what are the odds they’d still win?

Jack had been there, he’d lived through the victory so many people now seem to think was a given, inevitable - and it sure as shit hadn’t felt like that at the time.

It’s strange. No one in this helicopter actually has eyes, but still, Jack has the feeling he’s being watched very, very closely.

“You were the right age to fight in the Crisis?” Genji asks, and Jack nods. “I wouldn’t think such a man would be so eager to ally with the Omnic cause.”

“I believe in the right of everyone not to give a damn how I think they should live their lives.” Jack says. “Omnics included.”

Live and let live. Jack has never had the time or the energy to make his life more complicated, and he’s absolutely baffled that there are people out there who do.

Occasionally, in a private meeting someone would make the mistake of thinking that blond-haired, blue-eyed, All-American Jack Morrison must share their opinion on "insert stupid prejudice here."  Fortunately, a lot of those people stopped talking to him around the time Winston became Overwatch’s primary ops facilitator and main lab tech and anything else he wanted to take on. Jack’s hardly without sin - being dead has given him the opportunity to read about all of his failings in careful detail- but he always tried to strive for pragmatism, for finding the best person for the job. Or simian moon base refugee for the job. With a lightning cannon. 

Life can be fun sometimes.

“So, you don’t think they’re going to replace you someday?” Genji says, sounding a little amused. Jack remembers attending talks on transhumanism with scientists delighted by the possibilities - the true destiny of the species, a self-driven evolution. It’s also one of those hate group scare tactics, that even if there’s not a war the machines will still take over, creep in slowly - _‘a future devoid of mankind!’_

“I don’t see how it much matters if they do.” Jack says. He used to be required to give much longer, duller teleprompter nonasnwers - too many tensions at play and the situation too fragile to just say he thought it was all mostly ridiculous. What did Jack think about artificial intelligence? It sounded great. Maybe the Omnics would even let them have some.

Ba dum tish.

“Interesting.” Genji says, studying one of his own metallic limbs. “You really wouldn’t mind, being like this?”

“Hell of an adjustment.” Jack admits. “But a human body doesn’t make a human. If humanity’s even a good word for the part that’s important.” God knows humans were happy having wars and treating each other like garbage well before the Omnics ever showed up, and there certainly weren’t many anti-Omnic groups out there being pro-humanity, setting up food drives or afterschool programs or doing anything remotely useful. Genji is still watching him, obviously expecting him to continue. “It’s not about what you’re made of, or how you were born. It’s about…” Jack searches for the words. “… what you _do_. Who you care for. Why you bother getting up in the morning.”

_What you love, what loves you._

“To be human is to want to be?” Genji says. “Lama Mondatta would have liked to meet you, I think.”

Jack almost says ‘we did’ before he remembers himself. It hadn’t been much of a meeting, even so. Jack had been on his official duty, keeping watch over an entire room full of dignitaries, with an eye on security and who was talking to who and making sure a somewhat tipsy chief of staff didn’t end up faceplanting in the shrimp dip. He hadn’t had the opportunity to do more than politely greet the Omnic ambassador, the situation too politically uneasy for them to be seen talking together for long.

He can’t remember exactly who it was who’d convinced him of that, which panel of politicians or experts he probably should have told to go fuck themselves. Jack’s starting to wonder how things might have turned out, if he’d done that a bit more often.

“It just is. Being human, being - it just is, and it matters because it just does.” The conversation’s unnerving him, probably more than it should. But Jack hasn’t talked this much in years, not when he wasn’t pretending to be someone else. “Whether or not I believe it, whether or not anyone acts like it, that doesn’t change what is.”

“The intrinsic truth of an essential nature? A soul.” Now _that_ was the ultimate loaded word in the Omnic debates. As Strike Commander, Jack hadn’t been allowed within ten feet of it. “Whether man or machine, I must have a true self, and it remains unaltered?”

Is that what he means? If so, what did that say about Gabriel? What was his essential nature? What is Jack’s?”

“… are we there yet?”

Genji chuckles. “I apologize. This is what you get when you spend all your time around too many keepers of holy wisdom.”

All this time that they’ve been talking, the Omnics have been watching every word - keeping those long-lensed yellow optics on Jack. At first, he thought it was suspicion, or threat - but now he’s not so sure. Especially with the way the one nearest him now has its head cocked to the side, like a puzzled dog.

“Can I touch you?” It says, voice higher than he was expecting. Jack stares. Genji laughs.

“Please try not to take offense, they are only curious. They’ve never actually seen a human before.”

“I have.” The Omnic protests. “… on a screen.”

“We _all_ have on a screen.” One of the others says, scornfully, and Jack realizes all at once that he’s surrounded by a group of very large, extremely well-armed and well-armored children. No doubt hard-wired to handle all kinds of battlefield situations - they probably have more tactical knowledge than he does - but in all other aspects they don’t just look new, they _are_ new. He frowns at Genji.

“You shouldn’t have brought them here.”

“It is our directive. We exist to defend.” The Omnic who’d asked to touch him says, and even now a spindly foreleg nudges gently at the end of his boot, as if maybe he won’t notice.

“Diversity among all forms of life is the optimal condition.” A second one says, a little hesitantly. “Elimination of variety leads to simplistic and inferior evolutionary development, and the risk of monoculture collapse through unanticipated vectors. Therefore, diversity must be encouraged to flourish. Life must be protected.”

“I like humans.” A third says, simply. “You’re interesting.”

“Unfortunately, this isn’t the first incident involving Talon acting aggressively against Omnic interests - it isn’t even the first death.” Genji says. “But this … most recent act of violence proves they are no longer interested in operating in secret, and we must respond in kind. We cannot refuse to defend ourselves and consider it the same as peace.”

Jack wonders if this was the speech he gave to the monks of Shambali, or whomever it was who had the ability to authorize this strike. Jack wondered if they actually agreed, or if Shimada’s just gone rogue. Not that makes much difference to him, either way. The Omnic that had been studying his boot has moved on to what seems to be a careful examination of his glove - and Jack sighs, and takes it off, flexing his open hand, what he’s pretty sure was the goal all along.

“Go ahead. Get it out of your system.”

It lets out an cheerful little whistle and leans in closer, unnervingly maneuverable for its size. He remembers sitting by a fire on nights like this, waiting for things less dangerous than this to show up and try to kill him - and here he is now, letting a machine that could easily rip his arm right off tip his hand carefully forward and back, studying the flex of his wrist, the way the joints and muscles all connect, pressing gently to feel the bones of his fingers. Jack doesn’t quite have a working man’s hands, not like his father’s were, some combination of the enhancement program and how little he ever goes unarmored leaving them pale and relatively unmarred.

“Fragile.” The Omnic says.

“You’d be surprised.” Jack replies. 

“Do you know of the woman who tried to stop the assassination?” Genji says. “Lena Oxton?”

“I know she’s still alive.”

Banged up but breathing - and cooperating with the authorities, of course. Lena was no doubt trying to make as big a noise as she could that this wasn’t just some random act of human aggression, that this was designed precisely to sow chaos and mistrust. Jack wonders if anyone is listening.

“Lama Mondatta would have been glad for that, too.” Genji says. “He always knew the risks. He understood this might happen - but also that what he did, it was worth doing, and would live on after he was gone - he said they kill the messengers because they can’t touch the message.”

Jack’s not sure if he believes that or not, if Tekhartha Mondatta’s death means anything at all - and he reminds himself it doesn’t matter, he doesn’t care. All this is about good tactics and opportunity, the chance to neutralize enemy assets with limited risk. It’s about reminding Talon there are things in the shadows that will bite back when provoked.

It has nothing to do with morality - or the fact that out there, Lena Oxton is likely crying herself to sleep.

“What of the assassin?” Genji says, his voice turning thin, and cold. “This… Widowmaker?”

“You shouldn’t call it ‘her.’” Jack says, trying to keep his voice calm. It’d be safer if he didn’t answer at all, but he can’t bring himself to do that. “It’s not a person, not anymore. It’s a Talon operative, hollow on the inside - it walks and talks and does what it’s told.” 

No more a person than a turret is a person. Any of the Omnics around him are far more than she’ll be ever again. The old anger feels like cold, twisted iron in his chest.

\------------------------------

_Jack stirs the sauce in a heavy, enameled pot that belonged to Amélie’s grandmother - the recipe probably does too - as Gerard and his wife dance carefully about the kitchen. He loves watching them, the way they move together. Here or at a party, in private or out in the world it seemed like the light always follows them around the room._

_“We need to get you a French girl, Jack.” Gérard says. “You’ll like it. Trust me.”_

_He spins Amélie closer, and Jack holds the spoon out for her to take a taste._

_“Mmm…. pinch of rosemary.” She says, smiling at him as she dances away, leaving Jack to try and figure out just which container that might be._

_After this many years with no interesting drama, he’s dropped off all the lists for eligible bachelors, although every once in while the media will still make some noise about it. It only annoys him when they assume he’s in the closet - as if Jack would ever bother lying about that. The truth of it is, he’s as boring in person as he ever was. Still of little use in a casual conversation, and spot-welded to his phone more permanently with every year that passes. Occasionally, if the situation is dire enough, Jack will even sleep with his earpiece in, letting the comm chatter filter down into his dreams._

_He belongs to Overwatch - they belong to each other - and even when he puts the effort in, it doesn’t take more than a few dates for anyone to figure that out, to realize they could find someone with everything he can offer without the baggage of an entire global peacekeeping initiative attached._

_So instead of that life, he has moments like this - two of his best friends gliding back and forth between the table and the sideboard, Gérard singing very badly along with the music as Amélie giggles and pretends to try and escape._

_“Au secours, Jack! Save me from this ‘orrible brute!”_

_It’s more than enough._

\-------------------------

When they’d lost her, when she’d been taken and they finally realized by who, Gérard had shattered. One of the toughest men he’d ever known, lost to a place none of them could follow. Jack had to physically restrain him from going out there on his own to search, to keep him from offering his life for hers. Anything left in Jack that might have longed that little bit for a normal life had died on the vine, then and there - he wouldn’t do this to someone else, making them a target because of who he was. 

He never left France, heading the investigation, scouring for any hint of a lead and poring over every scrap of information while bracing for the worst. Aware that when they did get back whatever pieces of Amélie Talon decided to toss to them, he was probably going to lose Gérard as well.

Jack remembers how it had been, when they’d pulled off what had seemed a miraculous rescue, when they’d brought her home - Amélie dehydrated and malnutritioned but alive. Sitting at her bedside, Gérard looked like a man pardoned from the gates of Hell, his hand in hers, kissing her knuckles again and again between a near constant string of endearments and reassurances, like a living rosary.

They’d done tests. There had been suspicions - just finding her alive after all that time had been a warning bell - but they’d looked, they’d done everything they could think of. It just hadn’t been enough.

At least Gérard died not knowing. Jack’s not much for prayer, but he’s never prayed for anything like the hope that his friend had come home and kissed his wife like always and went to bed loving her and just never woke up again. 

Obviously, it had been a strike at all of Overwatch, trying to weaken them by making it personal, trying to scare them by attacking from within - but it strengthened Jack’s resolve like nothing has before or since. It wasn’t every day that there was a clear villain, that something happened that was so simply and unquestionably… evil. Taking a woman like Amélie and turning her into that? Jack will gladly fight the bastards to his very last breath. 

“If you ever get the chance to take it down, you take the shot. Don’t hesitate. It won’t.”

“I’ve read some of the files, the history. Still, it is difficult to imagine such a… violation.” Genji says. “Do you truly believe that nothing remains - nothing at all of the essential?”

After what happened to Gerard? To Ana? God, he hopes not.

“Anything good there died a long time ago.” Jack says. “If I ever ended up like that? You put me down, as fast as you can. I’d consider it a favor.”

The helicopter begins to slow, and as it makes a wide arc over the water, Jack can see the shore, dots of light up and down the coast. People who have no idea they’re not going to be around to see the sun rise. 

Maybe Genji is thinking the along the same lines, the lights in his armor slightly dimmed. The other Omnics are getting to their feet, shaking themselves off, waiting on his word.

“Mondatta wouldn’t want you to do this.” Jack says.

“No.” Genji says. “Violence begets violence,” and his tone gains an edge. “… but we have to do something.”


	5. Chapter 5

What they do, by Jack’s best estimate, is about a hundred and seventy million worth of damages. 

What that’s worth, compared to the life of a good man, is not his question to answer.

If he’d still been Strike Commander when Mondatta died, Jack Morrison would have had to go to a meeting - several meetings - not only for what he was supposed to say but what he would wear and what kind of backdrop he should be standing in front of. He would make the carefully groomed public statement, a mostly perfunctory display of outrage and condemnation for an enemy the UN would refuse to let him be too aggressive about tracking down. He would be the voice of sober mourning and reserved hope.

Soldier 76 gets to use two sets of Helix rockets to topple a crane into a building into a boat. Which then explodes.

 _I told you it was fun._ Gabriel’s voice in his head, sounding very pleased with itself. _Feels real good, doesn’t it? Doing the wrong thing for the right reasons._

 _Go to hell._ Jack will take the moral gray-area hit for this one. Talon’s got it coming.

Shimada’s choice of targets for the evening is the Barge. Constructed around the better part of a long-wrecked, half-buried aircraft carrier and far from anything like civilization, it functions as a chop shop for mercenaries, one of the largest illegal prosthesis and enhancements depots in the entire southern hemisphere. Talon-owned and operated, it takes in a considerable amount of coin for patching up and enhancing pirates across the better part of three oceans.

If Jack doesn’t end up fighting chainsaw hands before the night is through, he might be a little bit disappointed.

Genji set them down at the furthest end of the curved peninsula, the Barge glowing and glittering across the bay, with smaller boats anchored in between. Jack thought the helicopter was quiet enough to drop them directly _on_ their target with no one the wiser, but Genji had no interest in being subtle. He wanted them to know he was coming - and it’s his rodeo. Jack’s just along for the ride.

“What if they call for reinforcements?” 

“They won’t.” Genji said, leaving Jack to wonder yet again just what kind of tech the Omnics were sitting on that they didn’t feel like sharing.

Two outposts later, cue the exploding boat.

Jack’s never been much for bloodshed, no particular pride or thrill in it, but a part of him always looks forward to the fight, especially these days. The way the whole world goes quiet for a while, narrowing to nothing but the immediately relevant, with all his thoughts cycling down to the simple progression of completing objectives, of defending his team and eliminating threats along the way. 

It feels better than it should, it feels _right_ \- even with a team like this.

Omnics didn’t need to call out orders to each other, and so the only sound Jack heard as they approached their first target - surrounded by several tons of military-grade weaponry and one extremely vengeful cyborg - was his own breathing, and the slight ‘shh’ of metal in motion against the sand. The Omnics split off, one at a time, and Jack’s breath caught as they wavered, blurring into the trees, little more than a ripple in the night - stealth tech of a near-perfect quality. It wasn’t the first time he’d wondered if his presence here was at all necessary - aimed at the right spot, Shimada and these machines could easily take down an army.

The mayhem continues to build now, as he moves toward the last of the outposts between them and the Barge, their main goal still nearly a half mile off. The great ship is a buzz of activity, mercs and soldiers in constant motion on the decks, with more boiling up from below. It would seem a lot more formidable if Jack couldn’t pick out the smaller groups in matching colors, or brandishing similar marks - this isn’t an army, not trained to work as one or prepared for any serious, long-term assault on their defenses. It’s a loose gathering of meager alliances, men with no reason to trust or even help each other, which leaves them as little more than a few hundred guns all firing at random in the dark.

Whatever the rest of the world thinks about human enhancement and cybernetics, on the battlefield the future is now. Around him, Jack can see everything from simple replacement limbs with enhanced strength to gun arms and extra eyes with built-in laser scopes. Energy beams, knives, night vision - the works.

Not that any of it’s doing them much good. 

Jack’s unsure if the Omnics have other armaments - they certainly don’t need them, between the stealth cloaking and the razor-sharp claws, with tactical guidance systems directing them as one to the weakest targets - allowing them to anticipate where the battle will turn in their favor, how to turn one victory into a cascading massacre. Nothing’s been able to stop them so far, or even slow them down. Omnic brains can easily handle tactics human perceptions struggle to keep track of - Jack remembers being on the other side of this fight, and how it took every bit of skill he had just trying to survive it.

 _Damn, Morrison. Look at you._ Gabriel says again, admiring this time. _Even I didn’t choose robots over my own people._

 _You killed your own people._ Jack thinks back fiercely. 

On the roof of the outpost, Genji is fighting his way through what seems an endless supply of mercenaries, the lights on his armor bright against the dark and bodies falling off the wall in his wake. Jack has a clear shot of the garage beneath, drops to a knee and fires - half the structure going up in a gout of smoke and flame just as the sound of screeching tires carries around the side of the building - _not quite fast enough, Morrison._ Lights blaze, his visor straining to compensate. Jack knows the car is bearing down on him, already moving as his vision clears and he sees the turret on the roof taking aim, as he brings his own rifle up - 

The Omnic emerges from stealth mode to slam against the side of the car, sending it tumbling like a thrown toy, spinning down the beach and into the sea. It shakes itself off, none the worse for wear, and turns back to him, all that lethal grace momentarily lost to an ungainly joy.

“Found you!”

A round of bullets spark off its back and Jack dives for cover, the Omnic curling around him, impervious to whatever caliber they’re using and probably a great deal higher. Jack glances up - he’d noticed the impressions along its back and sides, circular patches of a slightly different color and when he reaches out to touch one it unlocks, flips open - a handhold, or a foothold.

Which is how Jack closes the ground between himself and the fortress Genji has nearly cleaned out - on the back of an Omnic at high speed. They circle the encampment twice, Jack taking care of the last of the ground forces before the Omnic leaps up onto the wall. He grunts, working to keep his hold as the robot goes nearly vertical and then they’re standing on the roof - the garage fire still crackling on their left and the sea on their right - with far fewer boats there than he remembered. 

Jack’s visor locks on a bit of movement near the shore, as one of the Omnics walks out of the water, shaking itself off like a dog before spitting half an engine onto the beach.

The lull is a momentary one - perhaps half a minute before the Barge thinks of something new to launch their way. Jack looks up and down the line of mercenaries shoring up their defenses - most of them furious and baying for the fight, though a few are beginning to betray the slightest hint of nervousness. He sees the lumbering motion behind the front ranks - large and slow, and knows it’s a mech even before his visor starts throwing up the details. 

“Well,” he says. “I think they know we’re coming.”

“Indeed.” Genji says, sounding like a cat who’s been happily batting at what will soon be dinner.

“Any thoughts on the back forty?”

So far, Genji hasn’t even drawn the second of his swords, the longer blade - but now he pulls it ever so slightly from the scabbard, flickers of green electricity dancing across the edge like a promise before he slides it home again.

Jack’s seen worse plans. “If you want, maybe this time you can even leave me something to shoot at.”

A soft laugh, and a blur of motion, an impossible snap from stillness to speed and Genji’s up and soaring over the trees, bullets pinging off his smaller blade as he deflects them, disappearing into the tree line about halfway to the Barge. Jack waits, listening for the inevitable - the cries of surprise and panic, the squeal of metal, and another fireball amid the trees.

“Goddamn show-off cyborgs.”

In the distance, Jack hears something that sounds an awful lot like a chainsaw.

——————————————

Under other circumstances, against the sort of enemy they had every right to expect, the Barge might just have held out. It lacks any significant vulnerabilities, and the closer Jack gets the more defenses he can see. All the usual suspects of high-powered artillery, gathered from whatever country had need of a back-door yard sale, along with a few dozen more esoteric implements of personalized destruction. A few electric walls, random guns that seem to shoot everything from sticky explosives to sawblades, and laser cannons with even tinier canons perched on top. All trumped by the two patchwork heavy-duty mech units with base platforms that very well could have come from the Crisis era, outfitted with layers of tech and more guns. The smaller one might possibly be made of flamethrowers, while the larger has been outfitted with energy whips on its extended arms, blue-white and sizzling as they crack against the sky.

Which would be all very intimidating, except that Team Jack and the Omnics have one important thing on their side the enemy does not.

_“… Iza, jinjō ni shōbu!”_

Ninja Bullshit.

Hand-to-hand, Jack fights the way he was taught to - conservatively, without spectacle. Looking for advantages while never leaving himself open for a counterattack. It works, but it’s pragmatic, nothing that impressive to watch. Heightened strength or no, going up against an Omnic empty-handed wasn’t really considered an optimal strategy - for the longest time Jack had to spar with Gabriel if he wanted any real practice.

_“Look out, ladies and gentlemen, it’s Jack Morrison!” Gabriel bellows as they circle each other in a makeshift ring of sand, Ana never looking up from her report. “He may look like a bitch, but he fights like a bitch!” The next sound is the satisfying grunt as Jack tackles him to the ground and they both get down to the punching._

In comparison, it’s obvious that most of the laws of physics and gravity just sort of shrug and give up when it comes to Genji Shimada. Jack thinks his imagination is filling in most of the action - the cyborg’s too fast to see for more than brief instants, Genji’s lights blurring into a set of intricate, parallel calligraphic lines as enemies crumble left and right and the mech with the lightning whips is causing even more damage, taking out its own men as it tries to bring Genji down. 

“Is this the best you can do?” He hears the cyborg taunt, somewhere in the middle of the fray as Jack takes out the last of the large spotlights, leaving anyone not enhanced with night vision firing blind - which doesn’t stop them from shooting anyway. He was right about their lack of teamwork - it’s pure chaos, which means he can afford to sit back and choose his shots, watching the mercs turn on each other in confusion, stoking that panic and fury even higher.

As a team, the Omnics have ganged up on the smaller mech, avoiding the blasts of flame and pushing it back one step at a time, until they can finally drag it down - right over the edge of the carrier, all leaping free as the ball of fire slams into the ground and explodes. 

Jack can practically taste the ozone as he moves closer in, picking off the remaining fighters too busy trying to avoid the battle in their midst to even realize he’s there, electricity thrumming through the heavy air as every lash sends out little shockwaves, cascading sparks across the deck. 

Genji is using the mech’s own power against it, every blow that doesn’t land destroying some new part of its own base - the cyborg’s _playing_ with it, and whoever’s piloting the mech might finally even notice, now that it’s far too late - all the self-inflicted damage, and how, as the dust settles, there’s really no one left on their side.

“A steady blade-“

“Will you just _kick his ass_ already?!” Jack snaps - and then the mech hums, building power and Jack has just enough time to wonder if that’s the self-destruct kicking in before he gets to witness something he’s never seen outside of movie nights with Tracer and Winston.

Genji’s hand closes slowly around the sword on his back before he _disappears_ , and Jack’s imagination is once again filling in the blanks - the lunge, the draw-the-sword-from-the-scabbard-and-kill-everything technique that leaves the whole mech creaking gently for a moment before it unceremoniously slides in two, cut along a slightly crackling diagonal as Genji resheathes his blade.

Like he said, Ninja Bullshit.

———————————————————

Plenty of Omnics never even leave the limits of Numbani, wouldn’t ever consider venturing out into such a dangerous world. 

Human trafficking is bad enough, and Omnics can be ‘useful’ in a hundred more ways, as both viable and inviable parts. Jack’s read the reports. He’s been there on the ground, seen the lists set up in the back rooms of filthy, makeshift workshops - which components bring in the most money, what pieces have the highest demand. He’d noticed more than a few of the Barge’s mercenaries were walking around with at least one Omnic limb.

So at first, there are no real surprises - scrap piles of machines of all kinds littering the first two bays - some of them humanoid Omnics, others much older, practically pre-war. The smell of antiseptic is thin and does nothing to cover the stink of blood and other fluids in what passes for a chop shop operating room. 

Jack imagines Mercy here, making outraged noises of disgust and dismay. She’d run field hospitals all over the world, spent her spare time in refugee camps and knew how to make the most out of scarce resources, how to handle minimal supply lines while still keeping her patients safe. The longer he looks around at the sloppy standards and relative indifference to hygiene, the louder her silent protests become, until imaginary Mercy does what the real Mercy used to when she’d been infuriated by lazy villainy, and cuts off the nonexistent call.

He walks through what must pass for the local bar, mostly dirty jars of moonshine on a plywood plank lit with a few strings of festive Christmas lights - and an Omnic’s head on the wall, like a trophy, wearing a cheap straw hat. He moves past rooms full of rows of empty hammocks and walls shellacked with mildewed pinups, two utterly unspeakable lavatories, and five booby traps, roughly made and easy to dismantle. The Omnic he’d fought with follows behind him all the way, moving quietly and saying nothing but studying everything it passes with an intense focus.

He’s still on the lookout for any stragglers who might be considering an ambush, but there’s nothing to hear but the slight creak of metal or a rat or two scrabbling somewhere in the walls. Which would almost be comforting, except for the feeling that he hasn’t found anything truly awful yet, a toy surprise still waiting at the center of all this.

Three floors later, Jack finds it. 

The room itself isn’t all that large, carefully tucked in behind a bulkhead for extra security, in a part of the ship that obviously never had as much foot traffic as the rest. It's almost pretty, a sort of abstract mural that covers the three walls ahead of him, extra wires and cabling dangling nooselike from above and no need for light, not with nearly all of it shining. The glow of what must be nearly a hundred Omnics dismembered and stretched in a macabre mosaic, attached to each other and to other machines and being used as their own power source for whatever this is - a server farm of some kind, extensive opportunities for cybercrime no doubt enhanced and hidden by the power of so many linked machines.

_Torture. Torture for profit._

Strip an Omnic to the bare bones, take away arms and legs, optical and audio sensors and it will remain viable - just like throwing a man into a sensory deprivation chamber.

He wonders how long they’ve been here. At his side, the Omnic lets out a soft, keening wail, and Jack reaches down without thinking, patting it as it leans back against him, seeking comfort.

“Genji!”

The cyborg is at the door in the next moment, and a low, violent litany of swearing fills up the silence after that. Jack steps back, quickly crowded out of the room as the other Omnics enter. No doubt a considerable conversation is happening in the silence, Genji moving slowly from one set of lights to the next, each flaring up slightly at his touch - communicating, probably for the first time in a long time. It feels wrong for him to keep watching, intruding on a too-private moment.

So Jack makes himself useful, and continues exploring the ship, down and down until he finally hits bedrock - and the very large, very barred door in the floor, covered in warning signs in about a dozen different languages to keep it closed.

Jack studies it for a long moment - and then goes to find a wrench.

————————————————

He doesn’t find one - but the thermal lance he trips over along the way does the trick nicely and it isn’t too long before Jack’s peering down into the last place he probably ever wants to go. He’d half assumed it was some sort of vault, the door likely hiding whatever plunder and riches these mercs hadn’t quite grown greedy enough to kill each other over yet - but instead, there’s a ladder leading straight down into the dark, and when Jack kicks down a piece of rubble the echo of its landing carries, a hollow, cavernous sound.

He’s done caves before. He’s done abandoned villages. He’s done Omnic-ridden deathtraps, wet and dry, foreign and domestic. Jack’s done rescue beacons inside eerily empty ships and vacant bases on full alert and nearly every other combination of ‘don’t go in there, you fool’. 

The benefits of being the fool paid to go in there.

The visor says there’s no radiation, nothing biochemical or chemical - the air is indeed air. He drops a few more bits of debris to the bottom and nothing fires on them or lurches up at him out of the darkness. He’s heard no sounds at all. So Jack makes the judgement call between getting caught halfway down with no real chance of climbing back up, or just hitting the bottom and hoping he can fight his way out.

He slides down the ladder as fast as he can, landing in a crouch, rifle up and ready - but there’s nothing. Just the echo of his descent and the darkness in front of him, overlaid with the visor’s view of a concrete floor and wide, matching walls that arch up to a mostly featureless ceiling. Jack notices the rusted tracks on the floor, meant for moving carts full of equipment - but where to and why?

He hears Genji drop to the floor behind him, a bare whisper of sound no doubt solely for his benefit. At least the pair of Omnics that follow are a bit more clumsy in their eagerness, reaching the ground nearly on top of each other, with the sound of a nimble toaster being thrown down a flight of stairs.

“The others are standing guard - unless you’d like to explore the unnerving, pitch-black tunnel on your own?”

“The ones on the wall, the Omnics?” Jack says. “Are they…?”

“Sane?” Genji finishes the thought for him. “They’re aware we’re here, that they’re going to be rescued. It will be all right now, we can help them.”

“Any idea what we’re walking into?”

“The files here were incomplete.” Of course they are, they always are. “Whatever’s down here, it malfunctioned, and apparently wasn’t worth the cost of recovery, or the measures they took to recover it weren’t successful.”

“Omnium? Rogue AI?” Always start with the worst-case scenario, and work backward. That way the inevitable Talon bioweapons lab or army of rampaging antique Bastion units will almost seem like a reprieve.

“I think they tried.” Genji says. It wouldn’t be the first time. Or the fiftieth.

“Do I need to worry about them?” Jack says, with a glance to the Omnics keeping pace at their side. “Or you?”

“Of all the things improved upon since the Crisis, autonomy will always be the top priority.” Genji says. “You’re not the only one who’d rather be dead than a weapon aimed at your friends, Soldier.”

The first of the security doors are several feet thick, Jack with his gun raised and ready while Genji convinces the security system to override with a shriek and a scream of long-unused mechanisms.

Which is good, as the shots from beyond ping against the steel instead of him, giving Jack ample time and cover to take them out. Only two turrets, and as they approach the aftermath Jack can see they weren’t in good repair. It doesn’t really make him feel any better.

“ _Kuso ̄_ …” Genji says under his breath, a half-dozen paces ahead and even as Jack moves closer he can see what the problem is - or more specifically he can’t, his visor going staticky at the edges, starting to glitch. An anti-Omnic field. A strong one.

“Ideas?”

“…. that panel, there.” Genji says, pointing out into the dark, along the wall. “The blueprints say it connects to the main power line.” Anti-omnic fields were rarely used even during the Crisis, fragile and fickle and a horrible drain on energy reserves. “If we could divert even a small amount of that power and then force an override, the system would reset without the necessary resources to restart the field. I can do it…” He says, with an indifference that says it’s going to be excruciating, “but I won’t be of much use afterward, at least for a while.”

It baffles Jack to think that after everything that’s happened, he somehow managed to come out the other side still mostly flesh and bone.

“Any of it digital?” 

“Manual.” Genji says. “A necessary safeguard for just such an occurrence, though obviously it wasn’t enough to-“

“Here.” Jack says, setting down his rifle. A few quick motions, and his visor is in the cyborg’s hands. A few more, shutting off the related connections, and there’s nothing electronic on Jack left to damage. “Tell me how to disable it, once I’m past the barrier.”

“We should find you a light, or-“

“I can do it by feel.” Jack says, a little too quickly. “Just walk me through it.”

“But-” There’s a pause. There shouldn’t be, because he hadn’t said anything incriminating - but it goes on that one moment too long and Jack forces himself not to tense up, a few key details of Genji’s psych profile coming back to him - _high social aptitude, natural propensity for noticing tactical weaknesses…_

Or maybe just holding Jack’s visor is enough of a tell. Shimada’s a cyborg. The damned thing’s probably talking to him right now.

“… you’re blind.”

Not completely. Jack figures at his best, he’s got about twenty-five percent on the left, fifteen or so on the right - likely enough to be legally so, though he’s never bothered to check. Without the visor, the world is a vaguely colored series of blurs and a visual field shot all to hell. He can, if he he puts his nose directly against a book and squints hard, usually pick out a word or two at a time.

Jack doesn’t bother to answer, feeling his skin prickle and a slight ring in his ears when he steps into the field. It isn’t anywhere he wants to stay, but it doesn’t exactly hurt either, and within moments he’s past it. He tries very hard not to put his hands up in front of him, or look as vulnerable as he is, fumbling through the black.

“Five paces forward, three to your right.” He’s grateful that Genji’s tone is all business.

Torbjörn had handed him a basic multitool five minutes after they’d met, and Jack’s had it with him ever since, mostly because he didn’t like having wrenches thrown at him for accidentally leaving it behind.

All of them had their superstitions, the things they did for each other, to try and make sure the team survived - Torbjörn and his useful gifts, or Ana and her maps, obsessively trying to predict where and how the enemy would move, how many possible routes they had for retreat. Reinhardt smuggling in cookies and cakes from God knew where - he _had_ to have had storage in the armor, hell, maybe even an oven - though they’d never caught him in the act. Jack checked and double-checked every weapon they had in the kit until he could clean and reassemble their entire arsenal by muscle memory, never looking at his hands.

For the longest time he thought Gabriel had simply done his best to keep them all in fighting form, either listening to their roughest days or sparring them out of a bad mood - like a therapist who occasionally prescribed beatings. He’d believed that was all, until he’d found the Saint Michael medallion tucked into a little-used pocket on his coat. Jack wasn’t Catholic, and Gabriel had happily admitted to not being much of one either - but facing down the Omnics, hell, he’d take all the help he could get.

The medallion’s still in his pocket, along with the multitool. Two of the only things Jack had carried with him past the last day of his life.

His hands finally find the panel, and Jack focuses all his attention on moving slowly and carefully - unscrewing bolts and prying his way inside, removing the pieces as he’s told to - while trying not to drop anything.

“All right, I’ve got-“

A hiss from the tunnel ahead of him, a creak of metal and… slithering, maybe. A wet sound, like raw, ground meat hitting the floor and being dragged. It smells much, much worse than it sounds.

“Genji?” Jack says, not pausing in his work. It’s easy to stay calm with a task in front of him, even though he can hear whatever it is getting closer - and that there’s more than one.

“Just keep going. Unhook the far left cable, the big one - there will be three smaller cables inside of it. Cut the center cable, and switch the other two where they join at the top.” Genji says, and Jack hears the sound of his rifle powering up. “… and try not to move.”

Which is how Jack spends the next forty-five seconds or so trying to bring down the barrier while Genji shoots at him with his own gun, bullets slamming into the scrabbling mass of whatever it is that’s trying to close the distance. Jack feels the wake of a round zipping in front of his eyes, another skimming just past the back of his neck and there’s a similar gust of air from the other side, as if something swings for him, a hand or maybe a claw reaching out but nothing ever lands. 

It isn’t long after everything goes silent, Genji no longer firing, that Jack attaches the last connection and the barrier shorts out, emergency lights blinking on in its place, systems no longer drained by the field regaining their equilibrium.

One of the Omnics warbles again, low and mournful, but Jack’s still glad to get his visor back on, already sure by the sound and the smells approximately what it is he’s going to see.

Talon was hardly the first group of ambitious sadists Overwatch had taken on, and even back during the Crisis there were little pockets of robots that… did things to people. Dead people, mostly. Living people, on occasion. It was one of the first ways they realized the Omnics were more than just simple machines running wild.

So it’s not entirely without precedent, to look down at a sort of jigsaw puzzle of metal and badly decayed flesh, the jagged-edged, multi-limbed things that had been trying to attack him, pieced together from bits of scrap and machine, with human arms and legs and… maybe the rest in there, somewhere. Jack sees what looks like fragments of lab coats and hazard suits scattered among the cobbled parts, and possibly the remains of the last people to try and force open the doors. Genji crouches down, letting his hand hover over the carnage.

“It must have been puppeting them - these Omnics have been gone a long time. It doesn’t look like the human remains are incorporated either. It’s just… wearing the pieces.”

“I hope that wasn’t supposed to be comforting.” Jack says - and then a rumble shakes the ground, knocking loose dust and a few small pieces of the ceiling. He glances to Genji, who is looking back the way they’ve come, probably talking to the Omnics they left behind.

“A boat. Depth charges. It’s being taken care of, but they’ll get in a few more good shots before they’re stopped.”

As if he’d needed a reminder of just where they were, a drop of water hits the top of his head, and Jack looks up, waiting for the deluge, but nothing more follows. “I don’t think this place can take a few more good shots.”

“Well, then. We should hurry, and see just what it is they’re so eager to destroy.”

————————————

Definitely an Omnium, or at least one more for the discard pile - Talon sculpting the AI they wanted in isolation before plugging it into a doomsday machine, only this one decided to bump up the timeframe and make it personal. Jack guesses from the decay on the bodies that the entire installation is post-Overwatch - six years. Only six years gone, and look at all this.

_No one cares. You thought someone would pick it up and go on, would have to see the danger - but no one cares and no one’s fighting._

On an aesthetic level, it’s beautiful - a pillar, transparent column of aqua light, criss-crossed with near-infinite synapses stretching toward the ceiling. 

Brain in a jar. A very tall jar. 

The room surrounding it looks out through the open ocean - not exactly comforting, when another charge shakes the building and Jack sees a few of those panels crack, new leaks joining older streams and the Omnium must have tried to fix them itself, Jack can see what look like crudely shaped patches in lower sections, but it was fighting a losing battle. It had been left out here on purpose, with the awareness that time would eventually solve the problem of its existence.

Unfortunately, Jack is also facing it on the quotidian level - and on that level, it has guns.

He goes left. Genji goes right. The two Omnics dart straight ahead and split apart and Jack is too busy trying to avoid the multiple turrets and the ricochets - watching each crack get bigger, the way the fight is damaging the building further and further past repair - to notice that it isn’t targeting the Omnics, that it keeps its guns on Genji but after the first round stops shooting at him, as if confused, and when the cyborg lowers his sword the turrets follow suit. 

“76!” Genji says. “Cease fire!”

Another explosion rocks the world around them, and an unnervingly large waterfall geysers down from high above, one of the Omnics dodging out of the way of the water as the entire building groans ominously. Jack dares a glance out of cover - Genji is moving slowly toward the central column, one hand out and every light he’s got flickering like a router on overdrive.

“You know what you’re doing?” Jack shouts - jerking back as a bullet flies past where his head had been.

“It’s all right. It’s all right, now.” Genji says lowly, fully focused on the AI. His voice low, soothing a spooked animal, probably a match to whatever else he’s doing that Jack can’t hear.

“Think maybe you can get it to stop shooting at me?” He says, as another round hits his cover.

“You’re human. It’s afraid of you. It’s afraid of everything. All it knows of humans is Talon, and pain. I think it was trying to protect us from you.” Genji finally touches the center console. “Easy. It’s all right now. You have no enemies here.”

Jack’s not entirely sure about that, but he keeps the rifle lowered as he slowly, carefully rises up - and though the turrets follow his movements, they don’t fire.

“We have to get it out of here.” Genji says.

“How?” Jack says, not bothering to argue if it’s a good idea because _of course it isn’t_. “There’s no storage and no time.”

The boat above them must get off one final charge before the Omnics take it down - but that one charge is enough. The entire building shakes again, and this time Jack can hear the sound of metal popping, a deep, thunderous groan amidst the scream of slowly buckling glass.

“This is it.” Genji says. “This is what Mondatta would have wanted.”

It takes Jack a second to realize what Genji’s planning - but that’s a second of Omnic time, and by that point those green lights are already burning nearly white with overload, as he must download the AI into his own mainframe - his own body - and Jack honestly doesn’t have the first goddamn clue what that’s going to mean except that all of Genji’s lights go suddenly dark, and Jack catches him before he can hit the ground.

He tosses the cyborg over his shoulder and leaps onto the nearest Omnic as it sprints past, tipping its back to give him the best chance to grab hold but not slowing down because the world has become a grinding, shuddering roar of splintering glass and metal, darkness and cold as the structure finally surrenders and the sea rushes in.

The Omnics sprint down the tunnel, Jack struggling to hold on to both Genji and his own grip and the wave is right behind them and surging closer, one misstep and they’re done - but the Omnics don’t make that mistake, even when the first reaches the ladder and springs up, while the bottom half snaps off and falls away. Before Jack can even think to worry, before the ladder can hit the ground the Omnic he’s riding runs forward, leaping high in the air and catching the wall with its claws only to twist and spring away even higher, hitting the remaining piece of the ladder and scrambling to safety just as the ocean crashes down.

“Good job.” Jack pants, letting his head drop against the top of the chassis. “Good robot.”

He’s content to lay where he is, sandwiched for a moment between Omnic and cyborg, letting the adrenaline subside as they make their way back to the upper deck and the night air. In the distance, Jack can see the smoke rising from the boat that tried its best to drown them. He slides off the Omnic’s back, staggers a few paces and sets Genji carefully against the side wall before crouching down beside him. His hands hover, uselessly. He can’t look for a pulse, and he doesn’t know what else to try.

“Stupid kid. So what’s the plan now? Turn it off and turn it on again?” Jack mutters to himself, not quite worried yet - not that it matters much if he is. He’d hoped the Omnics would know what to do, but they seem equally unsure, circling nervously around them in one of those silent conversations. 

Jack wonders if he ought to be crouching this close, and just how many seconds he’s going to have to make a decision if Shimada isn’t the one in the driver’s seat when he wakes up. If he wakes up.

“If you’re going to be evil, at least throw me a bone and don’t use the green lights.” He says. “Maybe try to cut me in half with the _small_ sword first?”

“I would not dishonor the _Ryu-Ichimonji_ with the blood of a _ronin_.” Genji says softly, as one by one the lights along his armor flicker and begin to brighten - green and steadier by the second.

Jack finds himself grinning.

“I said you’d _try_.”

————————————————

The world grows lighter in barely noticeable degrees, his visor ticking down the moments until sunrise, and the helicopter that brought them here is just landing at the end of the Barge’s long prow. Jack’s pretty sure that after everything they’ve found, Shimada’s hit the tipping point between being punished for disobeying orders and being excused for the ends justifying the means. 

Either way, it’s probably not the easiest thing to scold the former son of a major crime syndicate.

Jack finds a decent motorcycle in one of the garages they didn’t manage to blow up, and an extra tank of gas, enough to get him where he needs to go. Once the Omnics clear out, he has no doubt the locals will jump in to scavenge what remains. They’ve made a power vacuum here, which means sooner or later a new group of bastards will likely move in and start it all up again - but for the moment things are at least better for the Omnics they saved, and some Talon dick will be having a nasty surprise with his morning coffee, and that’s really about all Jack expects from life these days.

“We can drop you off, wherever you’d like.” Genji says, out of nowhere. Jack points his sidearm at him mostly because he can. 

“If I fired, would you bother dodging or just cut the bullet out of the air?”

“Why not both?” Genji says, as Jack holsters the gun. 

“Everything all right in there?”

“Yes.” Genji says. “A bit… crowded at the moment, but manageable. The AI is trying to keep itself quiet, on my behalf. I’m not sure yet, exactly, what our new friend knows of Talon - some files are still encrypted, others are in pieces. Shambali has resources to help damaged Omnics rebuild and recover lost data - they might be able to help this one, too.”

“Maybe it’s better if it doesn’t remember.” Jack says. A fresh start. Who hasn’t wanted one of those?

“Sacrificing useful information for the sake of its feelings? I’m surprised, Soldier.”

So is Jack, honestly, but it’s too-damn-late going on too-damn-early and he keeps forgetting he doesn't care.

In the distance, two of the Omnics are chasing each other along the beach. 

“No one’s planning for a war against humanity.” Genji says, following his gaze. “It isn’t their purpose.”

Jack shrugs. “Do what you want. It’s not my fight.”

He turns the bike toward the road, and starts walking.

“There’ll be a wire waiting, for your assistance this evening. Clean and untraceable, of course.” 

“Hn.” Jack’s out of words. He wants to be gone, to be silent and unknown again. He’ll drop the address, after Genji sends the wire. Maybe Jack will even do it before, just so the message is clear.

“… Commander Morrison?”

Jack doesn’t turn around. It’s his own goddamn fault for ever taking the visor off, but a part of him wonders if Shimada didn’t know even before that.

“You should tell Mercy.” Genji says. “I think she deserves to know.”

Jack swings his leg over the bike, guns the engine, and roars off, disappearing into the hills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I know Blind!Jack isn't canon but this won't be anything like the first time I ignore canon.
> 
> 2\. Thanks for all the kudos and comments. I'm not good at coming up with responses, but I really appreciate them.


	6. Chapter 6

It’s the 16th Annual 29th Official Summit Gala Festival Benefit for the International Society of Something Important, Almost Certainly With Presidents.

Jack’s failed to find to find a way to dodge it for months, and so now here he is, pretending not to hope for a sudden emergency - nothing dangerous, just something that would require his undivided attention in an undisclosed location. Far away.

Overwatch needs champions and cheerleaders now, with the Omnic Crisis finished and their future in question and the world still reeling, barely recovering in most places. Someone’s got to step up, just to keep things from descending into chaos. Of course, had Jack understood this meant parties along with the peacekeeping, he would have done a _much better job_ of nominating Reinhardt.

 _“Get that shit to the corner, Morrison!” Gabriel shouts_ across the entire base _, because they’re barely human anymore. “We need to make rent!”_

The broken fire extinguisher is coming out of Jack’s paycheck. In his defense, it wasn’t the biggest one he could have thrown.

Nothing to do but go and stand around in another brand new, expensive suit he likely won’t be reimbursed for, shaking hands and trying to look suitably impressive, being as polite as he knows how to be while agreeing with everyone who tells him exactly how it must have been in the middle of the Crisis. Jack doesn’t really resent them for it - nobody knows how to process much of what happened, so they’re all pretending, filling up the awkward silences - but every once in a while, someone will take his hand in both of theirs, or say thank you in a certain, quiet tone and Jack will know that they understand, that they were there. 

It really isn’t his world, all of this. Jack’s already tired and they’ve barely started - there’s still dinner, and speeches, an award for some person for… reasons - a thing in the shape of another thing to be graciously accepted and then forgotten on a shelf, or in a closet somewhere. Jack tries to stave off the combination of boredom and nerves the way he usually does, by pretending he’s the one running security and counting all the gaps and mistakes.

He can’t even check his phone - it’s been replaced for the evening by a small army of aides standing by the wall. If an important call comes in, he’ll be notified, but otherwise he’s supposed to be present and attentive and… twitchy, definitely getting twitchy now. Ana would be ashamed of his lack of focus - but he recalls her being conspicuously absent for all the opportunities he might have had to pass this honor along.

“It seems I’m not the only one who can’t be trusted.”

Angela Ziegler looks as irritated as he feels, as if she’s about to summon her phone through pure force of will. It’s Dr. Angela Ziegler actually. Surgeon and prodigy - absurdly young and already the best in the world at what very few others have even attempted in the realm of biotic healing. Overwatch has been courting her for months now, to less than zero effect.

_“We’re not going to get Ziegler.” Gabriel says, the last time it came up for discussion. “She told me to fuck off.”_

_“She did not tell you to fuck off.” Jack says. “She’s Swiss. They have manners.”_

“What is _it with you and the ladies of Eurotrash?” Gabriel says. “I know my fancy-girl-to English translation, and I was very cordially invited to crawl up my own ass and die.”_

“Evening, ma’am.” Jack says now, and nothing more, because stiff and awkward is his winning combination of taciturn Midwestern genetics. Ziegler looks at him, and Jack can see the moment the switch flips - being annoyed with the party to being annoyed with him in particular. 

For her part, she’s utterly luminous in a champagne gold dress, one soft, uninterrupted spill of glittering, silken light that pools a little at her feet. It’s a good choice for the evening, and Jack’s well aware that calling her beautiful is like saying water is wet or he’s standing on the ground - an observation of the blatantly obvious, and not one he thinks she’s at all interested in hearing. He suspects the dress may not have been her idea.

“So, you’re the great Captain Morrison? Savior of the world entire.”

“I had some help, ma’am.” It should be miss, she’s too young for ma’am, but Jack thinks she’d appreciate that even less.

“Heroic and humble, what a winning combination.” Angela says, glancing to her hands as if he’s something she could pick from under her nails.

“Have I somehow offended you in the last… eight seconds?” Jack says, feeling strangely amused by her disdain. At least it’s honest, and direct, and it doesn’t ask anything of Jack the way it does when people look at him with awe - he’s still not sure exactly who they think he is, or what they want from him. For her part, Angela looks away, and takes a deliberate breath, several emotions passing across her face all at once, too fast to name.

“I apologize. I haven’t even introduced myself.” She extends a hand. “Dr. Angela Ziegler.”

There’s a dozen ways to handle this moment - a charming man from the right part of the world might kiss her hand with a casual indifference, while he’s more likely expected to grasp it with polite delicacy - but Jack finds he doesn’t want to, and reaches out for a firm handshake instead, the way he would with a fellow officer, someone he was trying to measure up. It surprises her, but she holds his gaze, and her grip is strong.

“You’re not exactly an unknown, Dr. Ziegler.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, he can see her eyes narrow and she pulls her hand away a little faster than she has to.

“Of course not. We both know Overwatch is very interested in what I can do for them.”

“We’re interested in what you can do for the world, Doctor.” Jack says, and those words come out more easily, but he hates how he doesn’t sound like himself. It sounds like he’s selling something.

“ _Scheiß_ …” Angela hisses, and Jack thinks it’s aimed at him except for how her arm abruptly moves to hook through his own. She steps in much closer to him, enough that he can feel how tense she is as a new face emerges from the crowd, smiling broadly.

“Well, aren’t we the charming couple?”

In four years or so, Overwatch will bring this man in on just over thirty counts of being an asshole - being an asshole via insider trading, being an asshole via tax evasion, being an asshole for trying to evade taxes on his insider trading - but for now he’s just a smirking man in an artfully ‘casual’ suit who has either never worked a day in his life, or is trying very hard to pretend at it. He should perhaps try a little harder not to leer so openly at the doctor. Jack makes a heroic attempt not to loathe him immediately.

“A pleasure to meet you.” He says, as Ziegler’s hand tightens on his arm, her own smile hovering somewhere between liquid nitrogen and surface of Charon. “Jack Morrison.”

“Oh yes, I’ve heard.” He smiles, gives his name and his corporate allegiance - a company Vishkar would acquire and dissolve in one of their first expansive mergers, a decade or so down the line. “I wasn’t aware Overwatch had taken an interest in biotic technologies.”

“Well,” Jack says, “if we’re going to keep getting shot at…”

“True enough.” He agrees, with too much false humor. “I assume, then, that our Angela’s been keeping you abreast of all the difficulties.”

“We have had no significant delays.” Dr. Zeigler says stiffly, either for the overfamiliarity or the blithe accusation or both. “I informed the board that this was a work in progress, that the window of time I provided more than allowed-“

“For one project, Dr. Zeigler. Now the rumor is that you’re carrying two, and that some of these new designs you’re developing-“

“Are within the original parameters of my research cohort as it was initially presented. If you have concerns, I’m sure the board would be able to provide all the necessary details.”

If she grips his arm any tighter, Jack’s going to start losing the feeling in his fingers.

“Dr. Zeigler is very devoted to the Caduceus project.” The man says to Jack, as if this is still a pleasant conversation, “she’s invested a good deal of time and her own resources into the work. Of course, if she would consider expanding the scope of the venture, or allowing more access to her research notes…”

“I don’t build weapons.” Angela says. “I’ve made that quite clear on multiple occasions. I will not see my work being used to make the world a more dangerous place. Ever.”

Jack has the feeling she’s talking to the both of them, though she doesn’t so much as glance his way.

“I’ve always admired your commitment to your beliefs, doctor,” the man lies, “but sometimes moral absolutes can stand in the way of necessary progress. If this project can’t continue with you, it might very well end up happening _around_ you, and that would be a shame.” 

Jack, for one, appreciates her caution. Biotic technology is still in its infancy, but it will only be more important in the years to come, with what seems nearly unlimited potential for good _and_ for harm… Hadn’t they already had enough fun underestimating the Omnics? 

“I was under the impression the Caduceus also had the potential to improve the attack power for nearby allies.” Jack steps in. “It may not be a weapon in its own right, but presumably enhancing a supporting role makes more sense than forgetting which setting is which in the middle of a battle?”

Later - much later - Mercy will take that dual-role idea and apply it in the other direction, a ‘breakthrough’ that allows Overwatch snipers to shoot people back to health. Ana thinks this is wonderful. Jack appreciates the utility, but never entirely warms to the idea, even if it leads to some interesting chatter on the comms.

 _“Do ya’_ always _have to aim _directly_ for the ass, ma’am?” “Give me a better target, little cowboy, and I’ll try for that instead.”_

“Not quite the reaction I’d expected, captain.” The man says, with a slight frown. “I would have thought Overwatch to be more interested in the _full_ potential of such technologies.”

“I’d say we’re already pretty good at the fighting part.” Jack says, with a slight smirk he may have borrowed from Reyes and forgot to give back. “It’s the rebuilding that’s always more complicated, the healing that people need. Anything that can give them their lives back more effectively, I’m all for it.”

“Indeed.” The man nods, obviously disappointed that Overwatch won’t help him browbeat the good doctor any further - although Jack thinks it would take more than he’s got to move Ziegler an inch more than she wants to go. “If you’ll excuse me, I should be going - good to finally meet you, Captain. A pleasure as always, Angela.”

A moment of silence in his wake. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the doctor give him a longer, curious look.

“… you’ve read my papers?”

“I tried.” Jack admits. “I was impressed by all the parts I understood.” He glances down, to where her hand is still around his arm, and raises an eyebrow. “Not that I’m complaining…”

“Tactical _zieraffe_.” Angela mutters - _pretty boy_ \- and does step away, although she doesn’t move far.

“He wasn’t just talking about the staff, was he?” Jack says, half-certain he won’t get an answer but still worth the asking. He’s surprised when she sighs, and nods.

“The Valkyrie swift-response suit. It works in conjunction with the Caduceus - light armor, tactical flight capabilities, pinpoint landings. The fastest way to reach those who need us most.”

One of the other reasons Overwatch is interested in her, and that Jack is interested - when possible, Angela Ziegler prefers to work in the field, boots on the ground.

During the Crisis, Reinhardt’s Crusader suit had been among the most consistently useful tools in their arsenal, along with the mechs - to fight Omnics, it helped to be more like Omnics themselves - and in the aftermath several countries have fully committed to developing better armor technologies. By the sound of it, the doctor might be further along than any of them.

“No weapons?”

“A pistol. Personal defense only.” Jack has the feeling even that was a grudging concession. “At first, I had the full support of my organization for the Caduceus project, but then they found out about the Valkyrie, and since then there has been significant interest from new investors in… other areas of research and development.”

Jack comes from several generations of farmers, and what he knows about money is that even in the best years, there is never, _never_ as much as anyone needs. Even the most high-tech and well-funded hospitals always want to shine brighter, want new wings and better equipment and to keep those donors with deep pockets as happy as possible.

“If you’re looking for new avenues of funding…”

“Overwatch to the rescue?” Ziegler frowns. “What did you think of the situation in Australia, Captain? Was it a shame, how it all turned out?”

As if she has to ask. The fighting there had been some of the worst during the Crisis - but Jack still wishes he’d taken a tour there before the end, to see it all as it had been. So many dead - humans and Omnics when it could have been a second Numbani, they could have worked it out but it had all been rushed, pushed through too fast by officials who just wanted to make the Omnics somebody else’s problem. A plan poorly contrived and poorly enacted and now there were vast swaths of land that wouldn’t be habitable for the better part of _thirty-thousand years_ \- still no final tally of the lost, all the cities smashed or abandoned, the Great Barrier Reef down to a mere sliver of what it had once been.

“A damn shame.”

“My parents died for ‘it’s a shame,’ Captain Morrison. They died for ‘it couldn’t be helped’ and ’the cost of doing business’ and all those other things that politicians say in rooms just like this.” Jack hears the waver in her voice, underneath the hard tone. Angela looks around her with disdain. “Great men can always do great things, when they don’t have to endure the consequences of their actions.” 

He knows her story, at least in simple strokes - the Zieglers were first responders, associated with just about every major aid group and working all over the world. It was pre-Omnic, one of those terrible things that happened to people in dangerous lines of work - bad luck, an unexpected show of force. A peacekeeping force unprepared for the response, and a border that should have been safe suddenly and violently receding, with the worst of it aimed right at her parents and all the people they tried to protect.

“I’m sorry.” Jack says. “We lost too many medics in the Crisis - some of the best soldiers I knew. Good friends. It didn’t… I never had the right words there, either.”

Angela wavers, her anger fading slightly. It’s not the reason he said it, but she does.

“I meant no disrespect,” she says. “But I have no intention of working with a military organization.”

“That’s not what Overwatch is for.”

“No?”

“No, Doctor.” The truth is, Overwatch isn’t much of _anything_ yet, and there’s no telling if it’s going to be. Jack’s not even sure what his place will be there - at Gabriel’s side, no doubt, playing whatever variation of ‘good cop, bad cop’ gets them where they need to go next. Still, fighting the Crisis gave Jack a halfway decent view of the world - there’s so much potential, everywhere he looks, so many untapped possibilities. People who love their homes and communities and want to make things better, who just need a little time, a little help - a hand up and someone to watch their back.

Jack can shoot things, usually better than they can return fire - and that’s really about the limit of his personal expertise. He doesn’t know the best way to feed a struggling village in the long term, or how to handle distribution problems, or set up sources of clean water. He can’t stop an illness before it can wipe out a town, or build a better infrastructure, or come up with some new experiment that will make everyone’s lives easier. He’s a solution to an important problem, but there’s so much more that it takes to keep the world turning.

“At my very best, Dr. Zeigler, I exist to help you do your job most effectively. You do the important work, I just clear a path.” 

“Ah, that humility again.” She says dryly - but not quite angry, not anymore. “I’m surprised you’ve continued on this long, captain, if you think so little of your occupation.”

“Unfortunately, the world needs what I do. Maybe someday it won’t, but for now I can only…” Jack shrugs. “My grandfather used to say - ‘you can’t always stop the devil, but you don’t have to do his work for him.’ I try my best to remember that.”

Angela smiles slightly. “You believe in devils, Captain?”

“No.” Jack says. “I don’t think we need the help.”

At the far side of the hall, the man who’d been trying his best to intimidate her into signing over the Caduceus is now chatting with a large group of equally wealthy-looking men. All of them smiling and laughing and Overwatch is going to have to be a part of that if it wants to survive. No ignoring that game or pretending not to see the competition - they’ll have to learn how to play and win and Jack thinks the day is going to come sooner rather than later when he’ll look back with fondness on the times he could solve the problems in his life by just calling in an airstrike.

“Overwatch could use a conscience, Dr. Zeigler.” Jack says. “It won’t matter how fast we get where we’re going, if we forget who we are, or why we started in the first place.”

Her lips press together in a very thin line, but otherwise she does not move.

“I… need time. It’s not a decision I can make tonight.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to.” Jack says. “Right now, I’m just here to not enjoy a party.”

Dr. Angela Ziegler has a terribly unladylike laugh. There’s a bit of snorting. Jack finds it remarkably charming.

Across the hall, in another room a woman raises her hand, and Angela responds in kind, and it seems they’ve reached the end of… whatever this has been, introduction or interview or interrogation or some combination of the three.

“Thank you, captain, for the… interesting conversation.” Angela says. “I hope we may speak again sometime, perhaps some place a little less… festive.”

“I look forward to it, Doctor.”

She moves away, and Jack glances back to the wall, in the hopes that one of the aides may have transformed into his cell phone when he wasn’t looking. No such luck.

The song in the other room comes to an end and the next piece begins, a harmony of rising strings. Jack turns back to see Dr. Ziegler standing in the doorway, just for a moment in profile. He’s reminded of a portrait he’d seen outside some museum somewhere, the painted gaze cast out across a world in chaos as it had been boxed up and hurried away to protect it from the Omnics, from the entire city being overrun. There’d been a time they’d all thought it was the end of the world - and here they are now, with everyone pretending they’d never been that scared. Maybe it’s the only way anyone ever keeps going.

The dress she’s wearing is backless, a delicate, tapered V, and Jack can see the smooth lines of her shoulder blades, the softness of the skin between them. He imagines the way his hand would fit against her waist, if they danced here tonight - and he snaps that thought off at the source. Jack has at least ten years on her, probably closer to fifteen, and the very last thing she needs is for him to be the _entire_ list of actionable conduct on every workplace harassment poster ever made, before she’s even considered joining up. 

He’s already being too optimistic. Who’s to say she’ll ever give them another thought?

——————————————

Six months later, and Angela Ziegler is Overwatch’s primary medical consultant, with the Valkyrie suit prototype turning heads the world over. Half a year after that, when they’ve finally broken ground on the facilities for proper medical research, she’s head of that too.

By that time, Jack is newly installed as Strike Commander, with a party all his own to not want to attend. At least he’s able to hold onto his phone. Mercy wears pale blue, with criss-crossing strands of shimmering beads draped down the back, and Jack doesn’t dance with her then, either.

He can’t say exactly, when he starts thinking of her as only Mercy, when it seems to fit who she is and what she does better than any other name. Maybe the first or fifth or tenth time he sees the glow off those wings when she descends onto the field, and he knows how many people she’s about to save.

Maybe waking up in an infirmary or one of their medical trucks or even still on the ground, with Mercy standing over him, bathed in the light of her staff or a beacon and always worried and always angry. By the time Jack comes to, she’s usually just hitting her stride of telling him how stupidly foolish he is, how she might as well have left him down. Everyone else got her gentle side - only Jack was routinely berated back to health - and god, there were times he almost didn’t mind taking the hit.

Overwatch functions often found them mingling at opposite sides of the room, both their opinions and expertise in high demand. A commanding officer waving at forty as it blew past did not dance in front of the media with his much younger, beautiful subordinate, even if Mercy was really no one’s second-in-command and usually the first to tell him when his ideas were foolish or short-sighted, when the chairmen and politicians above him had given orders that were simply wrong.

Jack respects her too much to be the first question every interviewer asks her for the next year. She has more important things to tell the world.

Most of the time, Mercy’s even busier than he is - it’s easier to list the organizations and boards she’s not a part of, her schedule spilling out like a Mondrian gone viral, with time booked down to fifteen-minute increments for months at a go.

No matter how many years pass, he’ll always be too old for her.

Jack needs Mercy for her critical perspective - to argue with him, to push back. If it got too personal, if their friendship ever changed, she might start pulling her punches and Overwatch deserves no less than the best they both have to give.

He loses Gérard, and Amélie. Jack won’t put anyone at risk, because of who he is - it’s selfish, and he refuses and he wouldn’t survive it.

Then Ana… and Jack stops going to parties, which is convenient, because they finally stop inviting him.

It seems, sometimes, that all he has left are regrets and uncertainties, with hours and days and years of opportunity to second-guess every decision he ever made. Jack tries not to dwell - it doesn’t work, but he tries - but even at his most forgiving, he really was the world’s greatest idiot for never finding a single excuse to dance with Mercy.

—————————————————

After a decade-and-a-half of trying to argue past and go beyond his military origins, to insist that Overwatch is more than just another US-focused global initiative under a thin veneer of cooperation, they go and bury Jack Morrison in Arlington because of course they do.

During the Crisis, soldiers either tended to speak in great detail about how and where they wanted to be buried, or refused to discuss it at all. Ana had been one of the latter, while Gabriel had gleefully been among the former, with talk of New Orleans-style brass bands, or paying a chorus of beautiful women to wail behind the coffin. Maybe scattering his ashes over whatever official had been giving them the most grief recently - or a nice plot and a tasteful headstone, with a carved cherub and a simple, burnished script - “ _Here lies Gabriel Reyes. He was ridiculously well-endowed and everyone knew it._ ”

Honestly, for his own sake, Jack didn’t care. The Morrisons had a family plot, in a bit of field on the edge of town that more or less resembled every other field in town, and he wouldn’t have minded ending up there, but it didn’t seem likely. He figured he’d probably just get reduced to cinders and surprised atoms by an Omnic one day, and there wouldn’t be enough left to be worth shipping home. It never really bothered him, the thought of being no more than a scattering of dust, chasing the wind across a wide open sky.

Certainly, it was more honest than all this - the pomp and ceremony - especially when Jack isn’t even in the coffin. He wonders who they put in there. Stones? Nothing? Gabriel, perhaps? Wouldn’t that be something. 

It’s hard to remember getting out, crawling away from wherever the blast had thrown him. He thinks Reyes had been much closer to the epicenter - and imagining him dead, or what he feels about that is not something Jack can focus on right now, not with his own funeral being broadcast live on global television. 

He’s in a safe house, as far away as he could manage - Jack has no idea how safe it is, and he’ll have to move as soon as he can, but for the past three days it’s been all he can do to gulp down water and tear through the rations while letting his skin slowly grow back from all the places it was burned away and punctured through, trying not to move his broken arm or his fractured shoulder or his cracked ribs, gingerly tracing the new scar now neatly bisecting the center of his face. No surprise he’s broken his nose again - it’s always been the first to go, even in the easy fights - and so Jack’s left breathing slowly out of his mouth, wrapped in bandages and seated dead center in the Venn diagram of every biotic emitter they’d stored in the place.

His eyes are completely fucked. It’ll take Jack another full day to realize the rest of him is finally starting to heal, but his vision’s not keeping up the pace. Still, he can make out bits of black and white amidst the sea of green and blue on screen, the pointless commentary. A decent, obligatory turnout. Flags, flowers, onlookers. Bagpipes, for some reason. A lot of rambling about what this means, about the scandals, the disaster. Talking a big circle around the name of Gabriel Reyes, also confirmed dead at the scene.

Is he dead? If Jack made it out? 

Right. Sure.

Jack gets his own parade, and twenty-one guns, and a horse-drawn wagon. He can’t see any red on what he thinks is a close-up of the flag - just white and black and yellow. An empty coffin, draped in Overwatch colors. Which is apt, since everything else he’s heard seems to agree they going to bury it with him. Awful eager, aren’t they, to put him in the ground and wipe off the dirt and be done with all of it.

Gabriel had been laughing, the sound of it echoing in between all the gunfire, booming and hollow - _“I’d really love to know, Morrison, just what you think this is all about. Who you think you’re fighting for.”_

Jack’s not sure of any of the faces they’re panning over - one might be Winston, another bright blue blur probably Oxton standing at attention. At least he’d kept them all out of the line of fire - no other casualties in the base, none of his people -

_“Abide with me, fast falls the eventide.”_

Jack stops breathing.

_“The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide.”_

Mercy liked to sing to her patients - especially the children, because everything Mercy did was in kindness, to take away fear or sadness or pain. Jack had often found his way to whatever triage or clinic they’d set up in the wake of a bad fight, because Mercy was never not there, offering advice or checking up on patients and nearly always with a gentle lullaby at the ready. It steadied him, just to lean someplace out of the way and listen - and now he’s the one she’s singing for. 

_“When other helpers fail and comforts flee.”_

He bites back a strangled scream, every muscle and bone protesting the move but he has to drag himself right up against the screen to see anything, and he has to see her.

_“Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me.”_

Jack’s seen Mercy tired before, watched her push herself past any reasonable measure the way they all have, when people need their help and there’s no one else to give it - but she looks utterly wrecked now. Practically transparent with strain, like she hasn’t slept in a month, and her voice still soars across the vivid green plain, under a perfect blue sky and an absolute silence. She’s crying, tears falling freely but her voice doesn’t waver, steady into the next verse and then the camera’s panning again - Winston and Oxton, just like he thought - and Reinhardt and Torbjörn, all those old medals freshly polished and gleaming and - oh hell, _Fareeha_. Why is she here? She shouldn’t have to go through this, not again. 

Ana’s daughter stands at his graveside in her military finest, staring straight ahead, and just like her mother, the more upset she is the more furious she looks. No tears, but she might just pick up his coffin and caber toss it into the Potomac. 

He’s dragged all of them through months and months of increasing hell, and if Jack goes back now all he knows for sure is that it won’t end, it won’t ever end. If he tries to do this by the rules they’ll hang them all around his neck until he finally breaks under the weight - what happened at headquarters was more than just Blackwatch or Gabriel, maybe more than even some Talon-backed inside job. He knows it on instinct - otherwise why did he wake up already running? 

Even if Jack Morrison walks out of his grave, the miracle man, he still won’t get Overwatch back. He can’t save it - this piece of theatre is proof enough of that.

Mercy’s a well-respected surgeon who’d always disagreed with the martial side of Overwatch, and never approved of Blackwatch. Lena Oxton has her friends in the service across the pond, she’s been blameless in all this and everyone knows it. Reinhardt’s retired and Torbjörn’s moved on and even if they haven’t, there is nothing a living Jack Morrison can do but bring them all down with him. Wherever this is going, it’s going to be hard and ugly and whatever legacy they claim he has is going to be ground down into the center of the Earth by the time Jack’s through, he’s sure of that.

If he’s going to do this, there can’t be any leverage. No one they can hurt to get to him, to make him stop.

Lena’s crying now, hiding her face in her hands, shoulders shaking. Winston’s arm dwarfs her slim frame as he curls a hand gently around her, his other rubbing at his own eyes. 

Jack’s never been more ashamed, but he’s also lived long enough to know when doing the right thing still hurts like hell.

They lower him into the ground. He sees Fareeha take Mercy’s hand, and hold it tight. Jack’s always had good people, the very best in the world. They’ll be fine, they’ll take care of each other.

_Goodbye._

—————————————

Years later, and what’s changed? Nothing’s changed, except that Jack’s learned enough to know he made the right call. Everyone’s moved on, and if he ever gave a damn for his team, if he _really_ cares about any of them he’ll do his very best to stay dead.

Shimada’s right. Mercy deserves to know - but she deserves so much more than that. They all do.

—————————————

Jack’s hardly a Luddite. Overwatch had given him access to tech that _still_ hasn’t had a public showing, and anything he finds is put to whatever use he can think of. He’s hardly a hacker either, but he knows how to maneuver through simple systems, and keeps up with people who let him know about new tricks on the market. But flipping through the candy-colored buttons on the phone in his hand, Jack once again remembers that there’s a whole generation that’s grown up since he’s been alive - or nearly two, now.

Who needs Tinder and Grindr, when the future of instant hookups and instant regret now lies with…

“Rocketcrotch?” 

“That’s not mine.” The mugger groans, pinned beneath Jack’s foot.

“Hey, there’s nothing to be ashamed of.” Jack says, as the app cheerfully offers up illicit encounters of all shapes, sizes, numbers, positions, flavors. System requirements, for the kinky Omnics. “Be proud of who you are. If you’re not sure, be proud of trying to find out. Life’s a journey.”

“Yes, sir.” 

He accidentally opens up some kind of online chat photo album, and immediately regrets it.

“Is this _your_ dick?” Jack says. “Why would anyone - who on Earth needs this many pictures of dicks?” It doesn’t seem to be the only purpose of the archive, but pictures of anything else seem somewhat few and far between. Jack flips the pages in horrified fascination, aware that the little arrow on the bottom of the screen zooms off into infinity. “I believe in liberty and the pursuit of happiness, but by any measurement this is an excessive number of dicks.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

He saved the world, for this. He’s _still_ saving the world for this. 

“Am I going to go to jail?” The mugger whines, face still pressed to the cement and Jack immediately thinks _yes, yes of course you are_ , but this isn’t some pack of thugs moving illegal arms or drugs or any other crime scene that easily explains itself. Jack would have to go and give a statement at the very least and it probably wouldn’t amount to much in the end.

“I guess that all depends. Are you ever going to mug anyone again?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you just saying that because you want me to leave?”

“No, sir… I mean it… I’m really sorry…”

“Well, that’s good.” Jack says. “Because now I know who you are, and if you’re lying to me, I will find out about it, and I will _feed_ you this phone. For an appetizer. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir. Absolutely.”

“… and stop taking pictures of your dick. You might be president some day, and it’s a hell of a lot of work to scour the archives.”

“Yes, sir.”

—————————————

In those rare moments of his life when he’s not shooting or being shot at or blown up or chewed on by angry Omnics, Jack likes to read. He’d take anything that happens to be on the shelf, especially during the Crisis years, but given the opportunity to choose, he’s always been a student of history.

 _“All right, Morrison,” Gabriel says, studying Jack’s used copy of Irving’s_ 'George Washington: A Biography' _from every angle before tossing it back with a sigh, “I just need to know - how long did it take them to construct the illusion that you’re three-dimensional?"_

It’s a bit much, he gets that - proud soldier and living recruitment brochure Jack Morrison reading up on the Founding Fathers in his free time, _“-when he’s not busy stitching up flags or shitting out eagles to the tune of Yankee Doodle. You sad, dull-ass white boy.”_

It’s nothing like patriotism - the opposite, really. Studying history is about trying to find a path, moving past the bullshit and figuring out what worked and what didn’t and how to do better. Jack will read anything on any country from any era, stories of the supposed heroes and the purported villains and all the everyday people in between, just trying to put together the hows and whys. Where the problems started that cascaded into the world wars and the Crisis, into millions lost and millions more struggling to survive. Jack wants to know what a country and a world needs to be stable, and how to keep it there, the seemingly infinite interlocking parts that make up civilization.

Obviously, whatever Jack thought he’d put together still wasn’t enough to keep him from making all the wrong choices - he wishes he had the book someone will write about Overwatch, fifty or a hundred years from now when it’s all over. The one that lays it out in full, and shows Jack Morrison exactly what he should have done.

What he does know is that only the dead get canonized, all their flaws and failed ventures discounted in favor of the more inspiring narrative, the simpler story. In the moment, actually making the decisions, every president and pope and king is just one more fool failing to impress, with all their actions up for constant rebuke.

Jack reads about the soldier enhancement program - and even with Overwatch-level clearance, there are pages and pages black-markered down to the occasional ‘and’ or ‘is’ and little more. It had been permanently shelved not long after he and Gabriel had run the course - too expensive, with too low a success rate against the Omnics when they did hit. An ‘insufficient response to anticipated future conflicts’. A dangerous procedure, as well. Jack saw a few pages that hinted at a mortality rate higher than anything he’d heard about at the time, certainly more than they’d told him when he’d signed up. 

Of course, there were the moral concerns as well, that whiff of eugenics. Jack remembers one particular passage from an ethicist that now seems a little too close to prophecy - _“The question is not who these ‘enhanced’ men will be tomorrow, or the day after that. The question is - who will they be ten, twenty years from now? When the world around them has changed, and perhaps their allegiances have, as well? Who will they become, when they can be anything?”_

He always had a book with him in Overwatch, even when he’d only manage a few pages a month. There’s more opportunity as Soldier 76, during the downtime while he’s casing out a building, or keeping watch on a suspicious lead, or those days when his whole body reminds him that he may still be enhanced, but he can’t take a bullet in the thigh and stitch himself back together and expect the same twelve hour turn-around that he did at twenty-five.

Jack mostly reads off the visor these days - real books hurt his eyes after a while and being able to keep an updated Library of Congress on his face has never stopped being a singular thrill. The Shambali put out a special memorial edition of the collected teachings of Zenyatta Mondatta, and Jack tosses them a donation and downloads it all, flipping it open to a random page. 

_Control is an illusion._

Yeah, Jack’s definitely got that part down.

He scans the news at least twice a day, with a constant feed on if there’s anything worth watching as it unfolds. Jack tries to study the present day the same way he looked at the past, searching for patterns, attempting to uncover what’s most likely on its way. Mostly this means having too many screens open, and pretending he can multitask - it’s a lie, but a beautiful one. Jack works the problems the same way he did as Strike Commander - by staying as connected as possible, with an eye to the new developments along with any old alarms that might still send up a warning.

Which is why he’s half-listening to a report on the Omnic situation in Russia - bad, and deteriorating by the day - and glancing at the latest stock market index and a review of a new book on the Peloponnesian War, along with three street maps and the electric grid of the next place he’s probably going to have to break into when Jack hears the beep, and the small, yellow window pops up right in middle of it all. The way he’d set it up, years ago, just in case, and forgotten about it until this very moment.

OVERWATCH RECALL: INITIATED

Three small words.

“What the fuck.”

Three smaller words. Jack blinks, stares. Keeps staring. What the absolute _fuck_? 

It’s from Watchpoint Gibraltar. Winston’s last known location - what is he thinking?

Jack pulls up a more thorough news scan, everything from the last half-hour just in case the Second Omnic Crisis finally blew up or there’s an asteroid on a collision course or maybe the UN accidentally choked to death on the PETRAS act - anything that makes sense of what he’s looking at. Jack’s half-tempted to take off his visor and shake it, when he’s pinged from an account he’s been meaning to delete since the last time it went active.

\- : )

The little shit. Shimada must have been _hilarious_ when he was still human.

\- IT’S A TRAP 

Jack fires back, because it’s sure as hell how he’d do it. It’s been six years. Why now? What’s changed?

_Who got the call? Who’s going to answer?_

It doesn’t matter. It’s over, it’s done, it’s dead. Leave it buried. If they’ve hurt Winston…

\- I’ll make sure to get there first, then.

Jack thinks about Switzerland. He thinks about a man in a fancy office telling him there’d always been a contingency. _Superhumans and freaks._ He may be having a bit of trouble with the caps lock, but if any moment deserved it…

\- GIBRALTAR MAY BE COMPROMISED. EXPLOSIVES IN THE FOUNDATION AT HQ. THEY BUILT US ON TOP OF THEM. CHECK EVERYTHING. CHECK EVERYWHERE. ATHENA WON’T KNOW.

A slightly longer pause from the other side. Either the cyborg takes it in stride, or he’s good at faking it.

\- Consider it done.

Shimada may be a little shit, but Jack trusts him to do it right. Trusts him with this, trusts him with… 

_It’s over. It’s been over, it’s not coming back, and even if - keep your head in the game, Morrison. Keep your head in the goddamn game._

\- BE CAREFUL 

He hits send, and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

\- TELL MERCY 

Jack closes the window. The news feed. All the news feeds. Until the only thing left to see is the yellow bar in the center of the screen, still blinking its impossible message, and beneath it, the book from Mondatta. Still open, though he’d flipped it back to nearly the beginning, a description of the simplest terms - Enlightenment 101. 

_A mantra is a numinous, sacred word or phrase, intended to focus the mind in meditation._

“Fuck.” Jack says, quietly. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Version of Abide with Me from 28 Days Later, on repeat ad infinitum.
> 
> 2\. Of all the books about midwestern rural life, I am deeply fond of _Population: 485_ and _Truck: A Love Story_ , both by Michael Perry. I stand in awe of his prose.


	7. Chapter 7

“In here?”

“Yes, Commander.”

Jack peers through the glass - more than just glass, it’s a few inches thick and there’s an energy field thrumming beyond it. The whole setup looks like there ought to be a wild and dangerous monster clawing at the other side, not a young woman perched on the window ledge, lightly kicking her heels. Jack could easily mistake her for a gymnast or a dancer if not for the flight suit - or the way she keeps flickering at the edges. 

Of course he’d read the report summary on a crash that never happened because there was nothing left to crash. The hypotheses on its failure, most of which were some variation on ‘it was a _teleporting airplane_ , what do you want from us.’ He’d read the pilot’s obituary, a list of now-pointless accolades and career awards cut too short and when Jack hit the picture, the wince came automatically - god, just a kid.

_Test pilots know the risks better than anyone. You were that young when you enlisted, and if you were younger you would have lied to get in._

But this is Overwatch, where every once in a while they pull a miracle free when disaster isn’t looking - and so they’ve got Lena Oxton back. Mostly. Jack can look right through her to the wall on the other side, and every once in a while she vanishes completely, reappearing halfway across the room. She can’t talk to them - it sounds like a badly skipping record when she tries - and she can’t touch anything either, hence the necessity of the energy field to keep her in place. But if she was going to starve to death or degrade down to nothing she’d have likely done it already - Mercy’s verdict, accompanied by a baffled half-shrug - so there’s still a chance.

By the way Winston’s committed himself to this, Jack thinks there’s a pretty good chance. 

“It’s better than it was. We’ve figured out how to vastly decrease the intervals between her chronal jumps.”

He says ‘we’, but the sun’s been down for hours and Jack’s currently the only one in here, with the air smelling like they’re on the inside of a Reese’s cup.

“Athena,” Jack says, “when’s the last time he ate something that didn’t come from a jar?”

Winston scowls. “Modern food preservation was a paradigm shift in humanity’s ability to-“

“Nine days, Commander.” Athena says. “Also, his sleep cycle has been consistently below recommended nightly requirements.”

“ _Average_ requirements.” Winston grumbles. “It was different in space.”

“Chronal jumps.” Jack says it softly, mostly just to say something so ridiculous out loud and know it’s true. Jack’s kept an eye on the progress reports, he gets the theories of what’s happened to her and and how, at least on the most basic, layman's level. Test pilot to inadvertent time traveler, because somehow he’s lucky enough that this is his life. “I’ll be damned.”

Oxton’s vanished again, and Jack presses a little closer to the glass, looking -

\- into a pair of wide, bright eyes staring back into his own, Lena popping into existence right on the other side.

She gets him, but good. Jack startles, actually jumps back, and there’s no hiding the look on her face - half mortification at having done that to her superior officer and half trying very hard not to laugh about it. Oxton straightens up, snaps off a crisp salute but the effect is pretty much lost by the way her eyes are still sparkling, even as she wavers in and out of sight once more. Jack remembers a comment on the report, from a fellow member of her crew - _“Lena’s not really a ray of sunshine - more like the whole damn star.”_

Jack doesn’t smile, because she obviously doesn’t need the encouragement.

“You’re going to get her out of there, right, Winston?”

“Yes, Commander,” The scientist says, ticking away at the keys. “… just a matter of time.”

The soundproofing must not go both ways. He can see Oxton groan.

—————————————

It takes two more weeks of peanut butter and insomnia for Winston to finally craft a proper solution, and nearly a month later Jack stands in one of the training bays with a hale and hearty Lena Oxton bouncing excitedly on the balls of her feet as Winston makes the final adjustments to the testing lasers. Apparently, the usual training setup isn’t fast enough to be a decent measure of her skills.

“You really want to continue on as an agent?”

He could hook Oxton’s smile up and power his choice of cities, or possibly a space launch. The kind of bright-eyed awe Jack doesn’t get much of these days, that Overwatch doesn’t get these days. After what she’d been through, he wouldn’t have blamed her for walking out and never looking back, though it seems the thought had never even crossed her mind.

“Don’t think I’m goin’ back to the skies anytime soon. An’ it seemed like it might be the proper thing, right? After all you did for me.”

The impossible, Mary Poppins accent would have thrown him - it still does, every now and again - but for the Post-It at the top of her file with an important message from the rest of the British division - ‘ _we don’t talk like that_.’ At times, Jack would almost swear she was doing it on purpose, if she ever, _ever_ broke character.

“I admire your resilience, Oxton, but I’m not sure I like the odds of a field agent with a giant, glowing blue target in the center of her chest."

"What, this?"  Lena makes a dismissive sound, tapping a knuckle against what Winston called the chronal accelerator, a device that probably tied up the nearest patent office for a solid week. “Well, they still have to hit me, love.  I mean, Commander.  Sir."

“All right, then.” Jack says, charmed despite himself by her simple confidence, rough and ready. “Impress me.”

Boy, howdy.

Watching Oxton, Jack is suddenly seven years old again, with a box full of comic books where starship captains with ray guns have wild space adventures, or men with brightly-colored capes soar through the sky, battling nefarious foes. The SEP was cute and all - what, he’s a little stronger, a little more durable? - but this little pilot’s a goddamn _superhero_. 

It isn’t until Winston chuckles slightly that Jack realizes his jaw has actually dropped, Oxton leaping and dodging between the beams in a blur, the light of the accelerator the only thing he can follow besides the occasional half-second here and there where she changes direction and Jack has a glimpse, like a frame from a stop-motion camera and then she’s off again - and laughing, utterly delighted and Jack has to remember the Strike Commander isn’t supposed to grin like an idiot.

“C’mon Winston, give us a real challenge!” She chirps, and he presses a few buttons and the number of lasers increase by a factor of all of them, a dense thicket of light and they still haven’t touched Lena, not a single one.

“Has she picked her code name yet?” Jack says.

“She’s rather fond of ‘Tracer’.” Winston says, voice warm with pride, and why shouldn’t he be proud? Taking a tragedy and turning it into this - raw, unfettered joy, and it’s moments like this that remind Jack why it’s all worth the doing.

“Well, fuck me sideways.”

It’s the first good day Jack’s had in a while, so yes, why wouldn’t it ping Gabriel’s ‘let’s ruin everything’ alarm? 

Not a fair thought, even as Jack feels himself tensing up - and right on its heels, the settling of something quiet and sad and heavy, for ever having to tense up in the first place. He does his best to ignore all of it. Nothing Reyes likes more than getting a reaction in public.

He’s wearing all black, as usual - a point of cold, dark matter in the otherwise sunny space. There’s a event horizon around Reyes these days, and Jack’s not sure where it came from or how - but it feels dangerous to stand too close, the risk of being crushed by some impossible gravity.

“I didn’t know you were here. You didn’t call in.” Jack hasn’t actually been sure which continent Gabriel’s has been on for the last three months - he’s _supposed_ to know, to be in all of the loops, but more and more these days it seems Jack doesn’t even learn about a Blackwatch mission before it’s over and they’re counting up the bodies.

“Hn.” Reyes says, with his eyes still on Tracer. He’s never been much for protocol, and Jack can practically feel the taunt radiate in the air between them - _What are you going to do, Jack? Fire me?_

Technically, as Strike Commander he has the ability to call the vote - but only because Jack’s never actually made a move to pull that trigger.

Blackwatch is necessary - every country in the world has its spies and secret agents. It’s a weapon of last resort - or it was supposed to be, but now Jack’s thinking the word a lot of people would use instead is ‘useful.’ Blackwatch has allies these days that Jack can’t name - and Reyes is doing other missions, off the books. Using Blackwatch resources for God knows what. 

He can’t prove it - yet, but he’s started to build a case without ever admitting to himself that it’s what he’s doing, pretending that he’s not taking extra precautions specifically to avoid detection by Blackwatch agents, and deliberately not asking himself the question of what he’s going to do when he does have enough proof, with the political climate already filling with world leaders who see taking down Overwatch as the easiest path to campaign victory, somewhere between a noble crusade and a duck hunt.

If Overwatch goes to war with Blackwatch, nothing will survive.

Of course, at this point Jack really only has the prickle in his spine, the sour turn in his stomach that would have him on guard in the Crisis, aware there was something watching closely, stalking from in between the trees. An instinct he has to ignore, because the only thing in front of him right now is Gabriel Reyes, and they might not be the men they were at twenty, and maybe things went south and never came back but that’s between them - Jack’s not exactly an easy man to like, when he doesn’t want to be. Personal grievances don’t mean the whole damn situation’s gone FUBAR and he can still figure this out. If Reyes will just give a fucking _inch_ , for both their sakes, maybe they can figure this out together.

It might be a good sign, then, that he didn’t come here alone. Today’s the day Jack finally gets to meet the newest Blackwatch member, or at least the newest one he knows about.

For his part, Jesse McCree is still watching Tracer leap and bound past light and time with the same astonishment Jack had felt a few moments before. It takes a tap of the back of Reyes’ hand against his chest for McCree to remember where he is and who’s waiting on him. Dark, wary eyes study him under the brim of a hat pulled low, and Jack instantly thinks _coyote_ \- all lean and lanky frame, standing with his shoulders slightly tucked in, as if he’s ill-used to doing anything other but skulking and watching from the edges. 

Ana had been there, on the mission to take out the Deadlock gang. She goes out most of the missions with Gabriel, whenever Overwatch has their hand in - it’s easier for everyone that way - and Jack never asks but sometimes she comes back with ‘he looks good’ or ‘he looks tired’ or ‘he asked about you.’

Jack figures that last one is a lie. He wonders what Ana says to Gabriel, if he ever wonders what Jack’s up to. If he cares. It can’t be easy for her, being in the middle - but Jack’s never asked Ana to choose between them, and he’s not about to start. 

It was Gabriel’s decision to bring McCree to the side of… well, not the light, but better off than dead or in prison - but it was Ana who vouched for him, her comments on the matter as brief as they ever were.

_Be nice._

Which means Ana likes him - really likes him - and so Jack is predisposed to be generous. He trusts Ana’s instincts more than his own, and so where a first glance might see McCree as sullen and standoffish, a little copy of Reyes in the making, Jack can see a young man hurled well past his comfort zone and trying very hard not to show it, completely intimidated by Strike Commander Jack Morrison Everything I Do Is Important And Happens In Capital Letters.

Jack makes people afraid to be themselves around him, which is not a particularly useful skill.

McCree’s presence is one more thing Jack takes some not-inconsiderable shit for on the global stage - Blackwatch’s occasional habit of recruiting their targets - but this is one policy he’ll gladly defend. Yes, there’s a danger in it - but what’s the option, otherwise? Never take the risk? Lay waste to every enemy that stands in their way? Build another jail and another jail and just shrug and throw away all those lives for good? If Overwatch is supposed to be more than a cudgel, they can’t just leave the whole job of reforming and rehabilitating to someone else. Jack comes from stoic stock, not prone to many demonstrations of affection, but his father was gentle and his mother kind and he always knew he was loved. How many people never get that chance - how many people need a second chance to even have a first chance? 

The land of the lost, the unlucky and dispossessed is a vast and ever-changing continent, and Jack is a lot of things but he isn’t from that world and they don’t trust him there. The way McCree is staring at his offered hand is proof enough of that.

“Jack Morrison. Good to meet you.”

“McCree.” The man says, softer than Jack was expecting, and he keeps his eyes down. Rough hand, strong grip - he could have been one of Jack’s neighbors on the farm. “Jesse. Sir.”

“I could use that.” Gabriel says, his attention back to where Oxton is still breaking the lesser laws of physics.

“Mine.” Jack says, the shutdown so total it actually manages to make Reyes snort - a distant cousin to a laugh, twice removed.

“She’s too young for you.” Gabriel says. “Slipstream pilot, right? The one that died.”

“Chronal disassociation.” Jack says, because how many times in his life will he have the chance to say that? “Winston brought her back.”

“You always were good at spinning straw into gold.” Gabriel says, with that unerring ability to make any compliment into a sneering insult.

“We need to talk.”

“So, talk.”

“Not here.”

“Oh.” Reyes smiles. Goddamnit. “This about Ayers?”

A Blackwatch agent who’d been embezzling funds, hit the road with eight million or so and was now nothing more than meat and bullets on a Canadian back road and another round of extremely bad PR and Jack can’t help but wonder how much of that money they actually recovered and where it went to. Which is all something they can’t discuss out here in the open and Gabriel knows it but this is how it’s always been. 

_Order me around, Strike Commander. See how that works out for you._

Maybe Jack should have called him out right then, from the moment he’d been given command. It all would have still gone to shit, but maybe the damage could have been contained, somewhere between a controlled burn and the coal seam inferno currently raging beneath their feet.

As if he could have done all this without Reyes. As if he’d ever wanted to.

“Not me this time, Morrison.” Reyes throws a thumb over his shoulder. “You’ll need to thank my deputy for that one.”

Jack sees McCree’s eyes widen, the brief flash of surprise and panic and hurt - as fast as one of Tracer’s mid-air maneuvers, and just as quickly concealed. Gabriel liked throwing people into situations they weren’t prepared for, just to watch them rise to the occasion - except somewhere along the way it’s changed, like it’s not quite a lesson anymore, and he’s utterly indifferent to whether they sink or swim.

“I…” McCree starts, but Jack shakes his head. Not here. Later.

Of course, that never happens. Three hours from now, Gabriel and McCree vanish as quickly as they’d arrived, and once again Jack doesn’t know exactly where to or why. Only that McCree is a steady presence at Reyes’ side from that point on, every meeting and every operation - until Jack wonders, long after he probably should have noticed, if this is it - Gabriel training up his replacement, the next leader of Blackwatch. If maybe it’s time for Jack to consider doing the same. 

Retire? Where would he go? What would he even do with himself?

All of those were thoughts for another day, and when that day finally came not a single one would do him any good, all that preparation utterly meaningless - but at least one part of this would still turn out for the best.

Lena Oxton continues to make a mockery of their training system, and Jack is going to lean hard on her in the months and years ahead, a time that seems both infinite and barely an eye-blink in retrospect. The little British firefly, on point for everything Jack can throw at her and it isn’t just missions, isn’t just hostage rescues and sneak attacks but it’s the media, too. Tracer, somewhat bashful but mostly proud, showing off what she can do on half a dozen TV shows before killing the follow up interviews.

_Why Overwatch?_

“Saved my life, didn’t they? Winston never gave up on me, and neither did Commander Morrison. I’m glad for the chance to pay it back.”

_You’re not troubled by the current allegations of wrongdoing?_

“Always room for improvement, of course. It’s still the best place to do the greatest good. I can always be right where I’m needed most.”

A series of still photos of Tracer in action, flickers of blue through fire and bullets and collapsing buildings - hope, in the worst places. Tracer on the cover of magazines - what she likes to eat, what music she listens to, her best time around the _Nürburgring_. Lena Oxton handing out Winston-shaped balloons to sick kids in hospitals. She’s never not smiling.

_So you think you’re a hero?_

“Don’t know about all that, love. I just try to do the best job that I can.”

Earnest and bold and charismatic - it doesn’t save them, but there’s a good half a year where it doesn’t feel as much like Jack’s bailing out the Titanic with a sieve.

“Sod it!”

The chronal accelerator is a marvel of modern science - postmodern science, even. It’s also a marvel with a time limit, and whatever she was doing the moment before it cycled down, in the moment after Lena Oxton flies out of the training array and hits Jack like a cannonball.

Maybe not quite Olympic gold, but it’s hardly a poor entry in the Strike Commander shot-put - they skid across the floor all the way to the back wall, Jack’s arms around her - a good thing he’s built to take hits. God, all that and she isn’t even breathing hard.

It’s quiet for a moment, in the aftermath. Lena looks up, just a little bit of grimace in the corner of her grin.

“Usually a touch better at those landings, sir. I’ll… uh, work on that.”

“Tracer?”

“… Yes, sir?”

“Welcome to Overwatch.”

“… R-really?”

Yes. Oh, hell yes.

——————————————

One click of a button would just dump the account Genji keeps pinging him on. Of course, he’s a cyborg ninja with Omnic friends, so that’s not exactly a long-term solution, but just because Shimada’s sending messages doesn’t mean Jack has to-

- _Winston was attacked by a Talon strike force, under the command of this ‘Reaper’ of theirs. One of their bigger guns. He attempted to destroy Athena while scrubbing for location data._

Does Genji know that it’s Reyes under that mask? If Jack ever had any doubts, they’re gone now, not with the way he’s going after Overwatch agents. His choice of weaponry and tactics. How he goes from the center of attention, one-hundred-twenty percent visibility to nothing, not even the whisper of a ghost. 

Winston got lucky, but Jack thinks Gabriel had always underestimated what their resident genius scientist could bring to a fight.

Jack fought with or beside or against the man for most of his life - it’s definitely Reyes, but knowing he’s alive isn’t the same thing as knowing where he is, or _what_ he is. Jack doesn’t… doesn’t much care if he comes out the other side of that fight, but if he goes down Gabriel is damn well coming with him, and Jack had better be sure he can make that happen.

There’s a bomb in Gibraltar. A big one. In a room that doesn’t exist, a blind spot on Athena’s scanners. Just like Jack knew it would be. 

Genji’s cleared the rest of the Watchpoint, with the implicit intention of scouring any other assets Overwatch might put to use. It should be easier to uncover any sabotage, now that they know how far back they have to look.

He thought he was prepared for it - but the second bomb is a confirmation Jack didn’t need, the aftershock somehow even worse than the initial revelation. Genji’s not stupid - he’ll know what it means, and he’s going have to explain it all to Winston. Jack’s glad he doesn’t have to be there, to see that realization sink in.

_Not your concern, soldier. Not anymore. You want to do right by them, you keep going. Get out there and make their lives a little easier. Leave a few less guns pointed in their direction._

So he walks down a dark, empty street in a semi-industrial section of what could be almost any medium-sized American city, and when a man - a Talon agent - appears from a run-down brownstone near the end of a quiet row, looking down for a brief moment as he cups a hand to light his cigarette, Jack comes up from behind and snaps his neck in one easy move, fast enough to catch the lighter before it can even slip from his hand. 

No one’s around, no one sees, and even if they did, by the time they could wonder if they’d really seen anything Jack is already inside, carrying the body like a friend who’s had one too many too early in the evening.

 _Look at that, our little Morrison all grown up and thinking he’s hard._ Gabriel comments lazily. _Watch out for the one at the top of the stairs._

Jack takes the man down with a pair of quick, silent shots to the head, and is up the stairs to catch the body before it can fall. He hasn’t even let go of the first man - no time - and Jack moves back down carrying both, stacking them in front of the door before walking down the long hall to the back of the apartment. The agent in the kitchen has better reflexes than his friends - he actually manages to grab his knife off the counter, but Jack’s faster because Jack’s always faster and the only thing the weapon does is make a return trip right into his throat. He can hear the bones in the man’s wrist give way as he drives the blade in.

The SEP wasn’t designed to combat the Omnics, even though quite a few history books and the US government prefer to close the gap between those two events, pretend there wasn’t the attempt to make some humans better than others, to turn them into weapons. Rumors and horror stories flew fast and loose during the testing - soldiers crushing their children, ripping the doors right off cars - but at the end of it Jack didn’t feel all that different than before. His body still understood its limits - those limits just happened to be a lot further out, and if he concentrated he could push a few of them even past that. Jack had been already able to hurt things as a regular person - after the treatments, there was just more damage he could do more easily. If the world ever felt, now and then, like he was walking through a museum of blown glass, Jack just took extra care not to bump into any of the exhibits.

He’d counted only three targets in this building, but Jack moves carefully to the empty upstairs anyway, to find a laptop humming away in an otherwise bare room. Talon is still making their speculative inroads here - no time yet to move in properly, and with Jack’s discouragement, they might just reconsider trying. 

Overwatch demanded planning, with extensive reports on the front and back end, and weeks of meetings before any new initiative could launch - but Jack can work on instinct now, no need for instructions or warrants or negotiations with the local authorities. It’s better, really, if he doesn’t form any distinctive patterns or habits, or spend too long in the same location. Rumors of his existence are already starting to circulate in the right places - Soldier 76 popping up here and there, all over the globe, a vigilante who always seems to know where he’s least welcome. Standard intimidation tactics.

 _Having fun?_ Gabriel’s persistent tonight, and Jack can’t seem to shake him. _What exactly are we doing here, Jack?_

Direct action. Soldier 76 has been dutifully blowing up drug labs and taking down mercs and gangs and anything else that happens to cross his path, with occasional withdrawals from the International Bank of Talon in the form of stolen cash, bank accounts, information - like the e-mails on this computer that tell him a bit more about where and how they’re trying to dig their claws into the city. How if he wants to take a drive out past the other side of town, there’s another Talon outpost just like this one, with no idea of what he’s just done.

 _It’s a band-aid on a neck stump, cabrón. You know that._ Gabriel says. _Nice car, by the way._

A banged-up van, because nobody ever looks at them twice, and Jack can transport just about anything - or anyone - in the back. 

The second building is a dump of a house surrounded by scrub grass and vacant lots, with no security light on a cellar door locked with a padlock on rusty hinges he can pull right out of the wood. Lazy. 

After listening for a few minutes to the creaking boards, Jack comes up from below. He gets the first one with a single shot, and uses him as a human shield for two and three. Four and five are smart enough to stay upstairs, but the sidearms they’re packing aren’t nearly as effective as Jack’s rifle at punching through the floors. He listens, once the last shots have been fired, with local police dispatch queued up for the first complaint - but either no one heard or no one cares.

The cache in this house is considerably larger than the last - Talon sending out test weapons to try and pique the interest of the local gangs, get them invested in a slightly higher quality product. Sell to both sides, rake in the rewards, and start a mini arms race the city won’t be able to handle, Maybe after a while, when the profits even out, Vishkar shows up to offer a corporate solution, a privatized cease-fire? 

_Land of the free._ Gabriel laughs. 

The weapons all go in the van, along with the computers, cell phones, anything else worthy of a more thorough search. Jack considers his options, the way the wind is blowing - and sets the house on fire. Maybe it will get a bit more attention that way. Maybe someone will wonder about why so many highly-trained men with particularly extensive criminal records were around to get themselves killed tonight - Jack doubts it. The local resources are tapped out just dealing with their own problems, there’s no one with the time or the energy to step back to even see if there’s a bigger picture.

 _Solo missions with no oversight? Morally questionable actions without the knowledge or approval of an external authority?_ Gabriel muses. _Tell me, Morrison, does this remind you of anything?_

 _Ronin_. That’s what Genji had called him, the first time they met. A samurai without a lord. A man without a home. Any honorable warrior would have killed himself first.

A good thing he’s already dead, then.

By the time Jack gets back in the car, his visor’s pulled the cell phone logs, cross-checking the numbers against addresses in the area - there’s even a map. Jack knows where he’ll end up, aware that it’s pointless but he has nothing better to do, so he goes anyway. Driving past the dividing line where the streets get cleaner and the buildings larger, and then out of the city completely, up where green spaces widen out into long, tree-studded lawns and brick walls with dangling ivy and gates at all the driveways. One of those agents he’d dealt with had made a call - several calls - to one of these houses out here in the quiet hills.

It wouldn’t be enough to prove anything in court. Jack remembers that process, actually trying to bring in a conviction in past a certain income bracket. Sisyphean was being generous, and God save them all if there were international ties or the target was a contributor to the right political campaign and they always were. Always with powerful friends and an army of lawyers who could tie up proceedings until long past when anyone stopped caring, drag things out until the world moved on and the final payout was a pittance against whatever it was they’d already won. 

The sort of people who could do more damage to the world by moving numbers around on a chart than an _army_ of mercenaries - but they won’t have a gun to fire back at him. Jack can’t just go in there and start shooting.

 _Sure you can._ Gabriel says. _The only difference between these people and the disposable kind is how many of the disposable ones they can buy to put in the way._

It’s the middle of the night. The houses here are spaced very loosely apart, and if they bothered putting in an alarm system it might not even be on. Jack could wait until morning, could take out the man with Talon ties on the way to his car - or go in there silently and kill him without anyone else in the house ever waking up, not even the person sleeping next to him. 

And then Jack wouldn’t be a soldier anymore, he’d be… something else. But if he keeps gathering information the way he has been, inevitably moving up into the echelons of the people giving the orders instead of just the ones carrying them out…

_Picking off the low-hanging fruit won’t cut down the tree, Jack. Sooner or later, you’ll have to make a choice._

He already has a list. Nothing he’s officially calling a list, nothing with a purpose, but Jack has names, and information - not the sort of thing Soldier 76 could ever expose to any real consequence, but isn’t that the whole point of him, now? Being beyond the law. Doing what needs to be done when no one else will. He could get a lot more accomplished if he widened the field on viable targets.

_You really think they came down on Blackwatch because we were ineffective, Jack? Because we were mean to ‘the poors’? You’re not that stupid. I never hated you because you were stupid._

Jack’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. The eternal argument, just swap out a few dates or a few facts for the newest version. Whatever they raged at each other for, it always circled around to the start - Jack Morrison, ineffectual hayseed white boy cardboard cutout, given control of Overwatch because he knew how to smile and not ask questions vs. Gabriel Reyes, man of the streets, man of the people who only did what needed to be done, got his hands dirty to keep everyone else’s clean, finally screwed over by his superiors when he became a threat to the profit margins.

_Torture, Gabe. Murder and blackmail and extortion and setting fire to half the goddamn Geneva conventions and don’t you tell me it was some fucking virtuous crusade while you had your hand in the till._

_You can’t fund a revolution on good feelings and high-fives, pendejo._ Gabriel says. _Or you wouldn’t be driving around with twenty-thousand in Talon artillery in the back of a panel van._

Jack’s not building anything, though, not with this. No revolutions. No more ideologies, no more dreams - he’s done with all of it.

_Are you even that pissed at what I did, Morrison, or just that it cost you Overwatch?_

How about everything? Jack’s just going to save time and be pissed about _everything_.

 _That’s my boy._ Gabriel laughs, and this time it almost isn’t bitter. _I like you angry, Morrison. It’s the only time you’re honest._

Jack’s not Blackwatch. Maybe he’s closer these days - closer than ever, but whatever happens and however bad it gets - whatever it costs him, even if it means this is all for nothing, he will not be one more goddamned gun turned back on the world.

 _Yet._ Gabriel says. Always with him, here in the dark. _Come on Jack, come out and play._

A bit of searching through the files, and the visor alerts him to a new location that isn’t in a posh, gated suburb - a warehouse in another city, two states away. Luckily, Jack’s got everything he needs for a road trip and there’s little chance of sleeping anytime soon, which leaves no reason not to just move on. 

He’s always enjoyed the road more than the arrival. ‘Liminal spaces’, Winston once called them, the in-between, transitional places. It’s easy time, when Jack’s moving at a steady pace and his thoughts can settle in, lulled by the hum of the pavement and the promise of forward motion. He slides the jacket off, tucks the rifle in front of the passenger seat, swaps out the visor for his glasses as he turns onto the highway and then Jack’s just one more person on the road.

A _ronin_ , exiled from a land that never really existed, keeping time with all the other itinerant souls out wandering in the dark. 

———————————

Gabriel targets the museum.  No casualties, but considerable damage after a kid keeps Talon from acquiring the Doomfist gauntlet by punching Widowmaker through the rest of the exhibits. Which is pretty much how Jack remembers everything involving the Doomfist gauntlet ending up.

The statue of Commander Morrison still stands pristine and untouched outside, because God hates him personally.

It’s a decent week in the news - unprecedented storms wreaking havoc across southern India, wildfires in the western US, a minor European political scandal involving just enough sex, drugs and blurry cell phone footage to pique global interest. So the media hasn’t quite caught the scent of a rekindling fire, to realize that Tracer and Winston working together has as much meaning as it does - but there’s enough noise from other channels, because Winston hasn’t exactly been forthright about giving the gauntlet _back_ , either. 

At least for the moment it doesn’t seem like anyone’s drawn the short straw to move on Gibraltar. Just enough of a territory dispute that nobody wants to make it their problem yet. It’s an international concern, of course, but the attack itself took place in Numbani and they, for one, are being remarkably quiet about the intervention of Overwatch.

Having Genji as a resource is necessary, there’s no getting around it - if he’d only stop sending updates Jack doesn’t want and won’t read… at least until it’s the middle of the night and he can’t sleep and anything will do for a distraction. Shimada doesn’t suggest that he contact Mercy again, but it’s the lingering implication behind every word.

_CURRENT RESIDENTS OF WATCHPOINT GIBRALTAR:_

_OXTON, Lena_

Of course she’d come. Of course. Just imagine Tracer and Genji squaring off in the practice ring. They could sell tickets and super slow-motion replays and fund the rebirth of Overwatch entirely from the proceeds.

_SHIMADA, Genji_

_SHIMADA, Hanzo_

Well, at least they’ve filled that all-important “most likely to blow up Overwatch the next time” slot. As he understands it, Hanzo had been solely responsible for Genji’s initial arrival in a series of dripping, barely connected chunks, and Jack can only assume that there’s a _very_ interesting story he’ll never hear, to bridge the gap between then and now.

_WILHELM, Reinhardt_

Reinhardt was no doubt slapping on the armor while sprinting full-speed toward the first plane to Gibraltar, the moment the summons came through. He’d loathed every minute of his ‘retirement,’ even though Jack had done his best to utilize his services as a ‘special consultant,’ where Reinhardt could use his years of field expertise and tactical training to ‘advise’ various ‘problem areas’ with thoughtful, hammer-shaped ‘analysis.’ Six years on, and he hasn’t changed at all. Reinhardt is a hero and a man of honor, both in his own country and the global stage, and he was out before things got bad. If Winston needs to validate this new Overwatch in the eyes of the world, there’s no better support he could ask for.

_WINSTON_

_ZENYATTA, Tekhartha_

A name he doesn’t recognize, though obviously it’s Shambali Omnic. One of Genji’s allies? It’s clear that Widowmaker was the one who killed Mondatta, and everyone in every agency across the globe knows exactly where she comes from and who she works for. Jack hates even thinking it, that if Overwatch does return, if they’re allowed to continue on it will likely be that no one else wants to be the ones to deal with Talon.

Well, fuck that. Maybe it’s time for a few other organizations to pitch their starry-eyed new agents into the chipper-shredder. Maybe they’ll finally get it, when Gabriel Reyes starts recruiting on their home turf. 

_Don’t be a hero, Winston. Not this time. Make them work for it._

Except he won’t. Jack already knows that.

Genji sends another message on the heels of the first - a simple link, a line of code Jack recognizes instantly, and he deletes the e-mail without hesitation, in the span between heartbeats. Shimada’s a good man - but not a nice one, and he does absolutely nothing to try and hide his motives. The link reappears in his mailbox, and Jack deletes it again, and the passive-aggressive ping-pong goes on for a week before he realizes the cyborg won’t keep sending it as long as he just leaves it in the inbox, open and untouched.

Which is good, because that’s not… he can’t… he’s not that man anymore. Underneath all those bells and whistles, Shimada’s still just a young punk who wasn’t there for the fireworks show and the last hurrah - he _wasn’t there_ , and Jack can’t be what he needs just because he needs it.

A hyperlink in the sand. An absolute, inviolate vow.

To his credit, Jack nearly makes it to the end of the month before he breaks it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Genji is an extremely patient fisherman. Who also might know a few things about being violently betrayed by the people you love and left to piece together a new definition of who you are.


	8. Chapter 8

The second-to-last really good day happens like this.

Jack flies into Cairo the moment he’s free, which takes nearly twelve hours even on the Overwatch jet. He does his best to clean out the Changi duty-free before he leaves, with the usual hope of being able to substitute expensive gifts for actually having a personality. It all ends up being for nothing - he doesn’t arrive until past midnight, all of Ana’s friends and relatives either back to their own homes or asleep and it’s a maid who finally lets him in. Ana’s spent the last five weeks here, in a rather lavish compound that belongs to a childhood friend who’d managed to get through the Crisis relatively unscathed. One of many, many people grateful for Amari’s long years of service.

Of course, she could have had her Watchpoint of choice for the delivery, but Ana had stepped back from them at the end - she didn’t want to have her child on a military base, and she didn’t want anyone from Overwatch involved. It stung a bit, Jack can’t deny that, even though he knew how much Ana utterly loathed hospitals, or being vulnerable in front of people she knew. So Jack had waited, and grinned at the first text from a helpful cousin - _healthy girl, mom ok, 3230 g (7p, 6oz), look out world here comes Fareeha Amari_ \- and waited impatiently for the second. Now he’s here, moving quietly down the hall to where Ana is sleeping. The light behind him is dim and shouldn’t be enough to wake her, but when Jack opens the door she’s looking back at him as if she’d known exactly when he would arrive.

“Hey.” Jack smiles, and Ana smiles back, looking tired and satisfied, soft in a way he’s not used to seeing. It looks good on her. It’s hard to explain what Ana Amari is to him, in words that other people understand - but this is a part of it. One word from him, one smile between them and nothing more is necessary. It never has been, not with Ana.

“In the other room.” She says, and Jack nods and shuts the door quietly before moving down the hall, to what he assumes must be a nursery but when he opens the door it’s a sort of study instead, books and maps on the walls and Gabriel standing near the window, with Ana’s newborn in his arms. 

“Hey.” Gabriel says, softly, when Jack doesn’t move.

One word, and nothing more is necessary. At least, it used to be.

“Hey.”

It’s been a while, since they’ve been alone in a room together. It’s been awkward-bordering-on-ugly, with Jack as Strike Commander and Reyes… not, and even though they hadn’t demoted him, even though they were technically on an even footing - the same pay, nearly the same responsibilities in different arenas - the simple fact is Gabriel didn’t get what he wanted, what he deserved. Even if Jack thinks he’s not so undeserving either, even if it was never his call and turning them down wouldn’t have made them choose Gabriel anyway… it's a clusterfuck from all angles, and they’re not the friends they used to be. Maybe Jack should know how to fix it, maybe he could make this all okay again, but he doesn’t and he can’t.

The Crisis is over, they all have to move on, and whatever Jack feels about what’s been left behind doesn’t change a thing.

Still, this is… nice. A little more like the way things are supposed to be. He moves closer, and Gabriel doesn’t tense up or give him that cold, shut-off look Jack’s become too familiar with - punted out of _la familia_ without so much as a backward glance. Instead he’s relaxed and contented, all his attention focused on the tiny infant carefully tucked in the crook of his arm, already with a generous wisp of dark hair that Jack reaches for before he can think about how close he is, invading Reyes’ personal space, but the other man allows it without comment. 

“Just look at you.” Jack says gently, stroking her brow, running a fingertip across the tiny, clenched fingers, over the delicate edge of a perfect ear. Ana Amari’s baby girl. He is as lucky as he’s ever going to get, that he lived to see this.

“You want to?” Gabriel says, shifting the tiny body in his arms, ready to offer her over.

“I…”

Gabriel grins at him, one of the old smiles. Jack’s heart does something he’d forgotten it could do. “Trust me, Morrison, you want to.”

“I never held one. You know, after.” Post-SEP, it never became necessary and just didn’t seem like the greatest idea to bother trying. But now here he is, with Reyes handing him a four-day-old and Jack knows it’s silly to hold his breath, but he can’t help it. The only thing in his head is some ancient bit of conversation rattling around - _support the neck, support the neck_ \- and Jack’s never done anything in his life with the absolute focus of transferring seven pounds, six ounces of tiny child from Reyes’ arms to his. After a few moments, he remembers to breathe in.

“Christ, it’s like holding a soap bubble.” He whispers, watching her little face scrunch up, dark eyes opening for a moment, looking around at nothing in particular. He wonders if anyone’s ever put in the research, just why babies smell so good.

“She’s got your eyes.” Jack says.

“She’s got your nose.” Gabriel replies.

He’s pretty sure Gabriel isn’t the father, and thinks the other man’s mostly ruled him out as well. Ana hasn’t told them who it is, or given any indication they’re ever going to find out. She doesn’t do marriage, doesn’t really bother with romance, as far as he knows. Ana lives for her work, and that’s a harder choice for her to make than it is for a man like Jack. The world won’t ever see it the same way. He’s hasn’t been sure what this will mean for her, for the future - the thought of losing her as his SIC makes him tense all over - but whatever Ana chooses to do, he’ll support her, the same as always. 

A tiny fist rises up, catches Jack under the chin.

“Definitely Amari’s kid.” Gabriel chuckles. 

It’s never formally decided on, never spoken of aloud, but from this moment right up until the end, Fareeha Amari becomes their demilitarized zone, their neutral ground. When she’s in the room, arguments stop, conversations change course, and Uncle Morrison and Uncle Reyes both spoil her rotten when they’re not busy training her how to fight better, how to be stronger and sharper. How to win.

Jack understands Ana’s hesitance, her anger about all of it- if it were up to him, Fareeha wouldn’t go within a thousand miles of a battlefield, and he’s sure Gabriel feels the same, but all too soon it’s clear that she’s her mother’s daughter to the core, and there’s nothing they can do but try to teach her everything they can. Try to make sure she’ll come out of every fight the winner, or at the very least alive.

It may be the last time they ever agree on anything, but it’s a good call. Maybe the best one they ever made. No Overwatch in this room, no Blackwatch - just the two of them, and a beautiful little wonder of a girl.

—————————————

The fun thing about global threat prevention is how it opens up a nearly infinite number of ways to die. Rogue Omnics. Defective Omnics. Omnics who know exactly what they’re doing. Corporate espionage. Rebels. Talon. Everyone else who isn’t Talon. Bad planning. No planning. Friendly fire. Unfriendly fire. Grenade from nowhere. Grenades from everywhere.

Nothing else stopped the day that Overwatch detonated, or the day after, or the day after that. In some ways, it’s almost a comfort - no one’s ever really left standing alone against all the evils of the world. The evils are always busy fighting each other, too.

Which is how Jack comes to be standing in a dark, empty room on top of one of the Vishkar Corporation’s newest hydroelectric power plants, a massive dam in the middle of a rural valley - a careful and practiced piece of espionage he’s spent a week or so casing out - when all unholy hell breaks out below.

Well, there goes the need to be quiet, or make it look like he was never here. Jack takes a few steps toward the nearest window, glancing down. He can see what might be a flash of gunfire here and there among the trees, but the thick foliage hides most everything else and he’s at a bad angle. Jack had expected at least one or two guards to move in his direction, secure the director’s quarters at least, but whatever’s down there has everyone’s full attention. Maybe whoever is doing the shooting had been following the same schedule as Jack, knows that the dam is currently between its bi-annual rotations, with far fewer guards than there ought to be.

He’s not going to lie, there’s a little bit of _schadenfreude_ in watching Vishkar have to deal with the nastier side of being a global player - it’s not all catered meals and softball questions from perky anchors. Jack moves back to the filing cabinets - he’s dealt with the computers, but there’s a few momentarily-locked cabinets filled with what look like important documents and ledgers - rumors of Vishkar diverting money and power toward ‘special projects’ and if there’s any of those connected to this particular construction - connected to Talon - this is where he’ll find out about it, even if they’re all tallied in varying degrees of languages he doesn’t speak.

Overwatch had an entire department of translators for things like this - Omnics could learn languages with ease, but didn’t always understand the social or historical contexts - but now Jack only has the translation functions on his visor and whatever else he feels like cross-checking with. Of course, Overwatch needed as much detail as they could manage, to engage with any situation effectively - Soldier 76 just needs to know what he’s aiming at.

He winces, as the gunfire changes in tone and quantity - that’s the sound of a Bastion unit. Or at least the damn turret - they were ubiquitous during the Crisis, and easily torn apart and repurposed by enterprising individuals afterward - and even as he listens, another turret joins in. The steady mechanical roar covering the sound of bullets chewing through trees and rocks and anyone who might be trying to fight back. As high up as he is, Jack can still taste the tang in the air of that many rounds fired, as everything goes quiet again - a single shot here and there as final punctuation, echoing up to him against the wall of the dam. Jack hears the rumble of a truck, more movement on the ground as the victors advance. 

The enemy of his enemy still wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet or fifty in him, if they knew he was here. 

The dam had been popular for the larger cities downstream - less so, for the villages that had been drowned out upstream to make it happen. The inevitable march of progress, maybe - but it was the other toes Vishkar stomped on along the way that led to this - rural cartels who didn’t appreciate such a blatant incursion on their turf, and it seemed they’d finally banded together to make their displeasure known.

Jack waits to see where they’ll come up, to hit the higher offices for whatever they can pillage - he can slip around them and be gone without a shot fired, but no one shows. Down below, the trucks go in and come back out, and then everything is quiet. Jack puts a boot up on the edge of the wall, considers the possibilities of what’s just happened and what it probably means.

_You were never here. You got what you needed, now walk away. You can just go._

Jack can almost see the lights of the nearest village from where he stands, high above the canopy of the trees. If anything were to happen to the dam, it would be wiped out in seconds - and there’s others behind it, growing cities nurtured by the new source of power, like a row of fast-growing dominoes.

_Just fucking go, soldier._

He takes the stairs down. Quickly.

_It’s like I’m talking to myself._

———————

Bloodstains paint the walls a good sixteen feet above where Jack steps over what’s left of the first body. Definitely a Bastion turret. Poor bastards. At least it was quick.

It was nice of them to leave him a perfect line of tire tracks going right into the main complex, though Jack already had his suspicions. Alarm lights high on the walls strobe away for no one, the air cool and dry inside the massive structure at the base of the dam. Even this close, Jack can’t hear the water moving through whatever Vishkar’s using for turbines, just a low and steady hum - they may be a corrupt bag of fucks, but they do quality work. It’s impressive, such seamless construction, a match of form and function that would be almost flawless if it weren’t for the bomb sitting in the middle of it.

The only thing that crosses Jack’s mind is a small, weary and infinitely unimpressed - _again?_

He’s surprised they didn’t just leave the whole truck behind. It’s the kind of overzealous explosive some other unscrupulous war profiteer probably offloaded for a hefty profit, to men who weren’t too confident about their chances against hard-light based construction to do more than get the biggest bomb they could find and stick it right in the middle of things.

 _17:49_ The timer says, in bright, helpful numbers. _17:48. 17:47_

Jack knows the very basics of bomb defusing, because Torbjörn taught him. He also knows the advanced strategy - go find Torbjörn. Which was why, since their weapons expert couldn’t be with five or six Overwatch teams at the same time, he’d devoted himself to an encyclopedic review of practically everything he knew on the subject, every setup and how to break it down and Jack needs that expertise now or everyone downstream from this dam is going to have a real short, real bad morning and he knows what he’s going to have to do and _fucking Genji fucking Shimada_ …

Jack squeezes his eyes shut, teeth grinding - two seconds he can’t really afford to spare - and then he opens fucking Genji fucking Shimada’s fucking e-mail and clicks on the fucking link, like ripping off a bandage in one swift move and pretending it doesn’t hurt.

“Athena,” he says, transmitting a realtime visual of the bomb through his visor with the blink of an eye, “I need you to cross-reference what I’m looking at against any known explosive configurations. It might be a composite, with some high-grade components but not a professional job.”

Jack doesn’t really understand AI’s or quantum computing beyond the realm of pop science and the granular, step-by-step of what he’d needed to know to shut them down. He can’t remember exactly how long it would take an Omnium-level AI to process through every human decision ever made since they’d crawled out of the sea, but Jack does know it is not at all a large number. Athena can calculate the trajectories for space flight to the end of the galaxy and back, down to the final moment before touchdown in the time it takes Jack’s addled meat brain to make half a decent cup of coffee in the morning - and still, in this moment, he senses her confusion. A few seconds’ time - an epoch of disbelief. 

“… Commander Morrison?”

“I need those schematics, Athena, and I need them now.”

“Understood, Commander.” 

Half a heartbeat later, and he’s got them, and then Jack's carefully taking off the outer panel, making sure not to disturb any piece of the artless, overcomplicated kludging - he can hear Torbjörn let out a judgmental tsk every few seconds as Jack reveals another bundle of wires, another section to be carefully cut through or worked around. 

He ignores the clock when it ticks down past the double digits, and then further, down past the time when trying to escape won’t matter - _7:38, 7:37, 7:36_ \- focused on the wires underneath the schematics in his visor as Athena calculates and recalculates and gives him careful instructions and it’s all going well, they’re getting to where they need to go - and then Jack’s at the main event, the heart of the thing - and he clips a wire… and watches it reattach itself, and grow two more that link into the side of the explosive core like vines, like it's alive. 

He cuts an alternate line - and both pieces reconnect, twining beneath another set of wires like snakes. The bomb is… growing, making itself more complex while he watches, and Jack could keep cutting all day and it would keep restoring itself and he doesn’t have all day. He has a lot less than all day.

_4:35, 4:34, 4:33…_

“Commander, I am detecting unknown-”

“Yeah.” Jack says. “Yeah, I see it.”

No one would have updated the archive for this, six years of new technology out on the market, and Jack’s never even heard of this kind of thing shoved into a bomb before - nanofiller, intelligent cluster machines programmed to a specific purpose - in this case, repairing electrical connections - and it’s a bit like making a car bomb out of a McLaren P1. Jack can’t imagine where they had the resources to buy _or_ steal even a few ounces of such a valuable commodity, and if they’d put any real thought into this plan they probably could have used this to do a lot more damage in some other way, so Jack supposes it could have gone worse. 

Not that anyone else in the valley is likely to agree with him.

Jack cuts the visual.

“Commander Morrison, I can’t-“

“It’s okay. I’m picking up some interference.” He lies. “I’m okay. You did good. I’ve got this.”

_2:38, 2:37…_

Even if Jack outran the blast, he wouldn’t outrun the water. There’s nothing he can do now, for himself or anyone else. Sometimes, the luck just isn't there. He sighs.

“… how’ve you been, Athena?”

“I have been… fine, Commander.” God, of all the things for an AI to learn - how to pretend everything is all right. “All other Watchpoints are currently offline. I have been assisting Winston with his scientific research until the recent recall.”

“I’m surprised you let him get away with that.”

“I was never given clearance to supersede the order.” Athena says, with perfect don’t-blame-me-I’m-electronic immunity - and then with the slightest, heartbreaking hesitance. “It has been 2,326 days since you last logged in, Commander. Were you out of communication range?”

Athena doesn’t know what happened at HQ - external connections were the first thing to go that day, her local server fried and then reduced to ash for good measure. Of course, she’d have seen everything after that, all the news footage of his death - but asking about that, about why he stayed away is much harder, and she’s trying to tread lightly. For his sake?

“… something like that.” Jack says, and he’s sorry for failing her, and he’s sorry that in just under two minutes he’s going to have to do it all over again.

“Should I alert Winston that you-“

“No.” Jack says. “Authority override Echo Victor Sierra-”

He stops himself. Does he really want this to be the last thing he does? Forcing a friend into silence? Jack rarely used the override codes even in the old days, and if Genji’s been tinkering with her systems there’s a good chance they won’t work anyway.

“… can you keep this between us? For now?” 

“Of course, Commander.”

“It’s not Commander anymore, Athena.”

“Of course, Commander.”

Jack huffs a surprised laugh. It’s a goddamn cybernetic conspiracy.

“… have you successfully disarmed the device?” Oh, and she knows he’s lying. She knows it. 

_1:00, :59, :58…_

“It’s okay, Athena.” Jack says. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

He is glad he got to talk to her again, even for a few minutes. There are worse feelings to go out on than nostalgia. Jack hopes she’ll forgive him for it.

 _All those people downstream…_ Soldier 76 isn’t even a person, not really - his death is the least important part of what’s about to happen here.

“Athena, I’m going to need you to alert the authorities - whatever emergency first response there is, past the area of -“

“Drop your weapons now, and put your hands in the air.”

Jack spins, startled, not expecting anyone in the cave and certainly not the Vishkar agent with a blue energy beam aimed at his head and a look of steely determination that only lasts until she glances over his shoulder. Jack sees her eyes go wide as she realizes what she’s looking at.

_:46, :45, :44…_

“I can’t stop it.” Jack says, unceremoniously flicked out of the the way by a curved shot from that gun of hers, and then she’s standing in front of the bomb. A little over thirty seconds left, and her hands blur through the air with a pianist’s precision - delicate, deliberate gestures that all trail edges of sharp blue energy.

Jack’s never seen hard light work in action - he’s read about it, watched a few interviews with Vishkar architechs but he’s never bothered to track down footage of the event itself. He really should have, before now - it’s something to see. Shapes upon shapes, and she’s cast her arms out wide a few times, planting larger guidelines higher on the walls but the real mass of it is piled up around the bomb. A network of interlocking channels, a microscopic honeycomb of glittering, barely visible walls - she’s trying to blunt the explosion, to direct the force of the blast away from the dam and Jack’s pretty sure she could do it, that given enough time there wouldn’t be a sign of damage but they don’t have time, they don’t have -

_:05, :04, :03…_

The woman spares one of the last two seconds to make a gesture that isn’t aimed at the bomb - a shield of light that snaps up around the both of them. Jack’s surprised by the gesture, but there’s no time to really appreciate it, nothing left to do but brace and see just how blown up he’s going to be this time around.

_Oh, for fuck’s-_

————————————

The worst day of Jack’s life is 283 days long, and it all starts with a phone call.

Nothing’s been going particularly well - but Jack’s still managing to keep his head above water. He’s been in the business of politics long enough to understand at least a few of the rhythms, where to dodge and where to push, not that survival ever feels the same as victory. Overwatch has been hit with a few more corruption scandals, a few more disgraced agents - still internal so far, but all it’s going to take is one breakout case, one person pushing too far into the politics or business of the wrong country and the world’s going to come down on him and his with all the wrath of the mercilessly righteous. Jack’s been pulling back, making concessions and agreeing to restrictions but _fuck_ , now they’ve even started going after the non-military Watchpoints, bitching him out because science is real and pollution is a thing that exists and Jack can’t just make facts go away when they cut into profit margins.

He’s been asked to come in for more frequent combat and skill reviews - purely in his own best interest, of course, considering his age. He’s not quite old enough yet, that they can push him out the door, but the fact that they’re so impatient to try is hardly a good sign. Unfortunately for them, combat is about the only thing Jack still does flawlessly, and the worse things get on the administrative side the more he wants to be out and working, boots on the ground - his skills in the field are as sharp as they’ve ever been.

He’s crashed out, then, after another op he probably shouldn’t have seen to personally. Spending too long away from his desk, providing too many opportunities for people to work around him while he’s busy elsewhere but Jack needed it. The simplicity of going out and fixing a problem, of stopping the bad guys and helping the good guys and making the world safer - the whole damn reason he took this job in the first place.

He doesn’t even remember picking up the phone.

“Jack.” 

It’s Reinhardt, which makes no sense. Jack’s mind is still sticky with interrupted sleep, and he looks around, tries to remember what time it is and _where_ he is - the clock says 3:20 but this is an anonymous Watchpoint inner room with no windows and Jack doesn’t even know if that’s morning or evening.

“… Reinhardt?”

He is in dire need of a shower, every inch of him feeling gritty and locked-up. Why is Reinhardt calling him, anyway? He’s out of all this. Shit, was Jack supposed to call? He rifles the mental pages of his personal to-do list, the few things he doesn’t have Athena remember for him, but it’s a blank book, refusing to dislodge any hints even when he picks it up and gives it a shake.

“Jack. My friend.” A terrible, sickening gentleness in the other man’s voice - there’s only one time anyone is gentle with him, and Jack rubs a hand over his face and tries to pretend it does anything to wake him up.

“Who’d we lose?” He says through a gravel-packed throat, trying to remember which teams were active where and Winston - no, he’s in his lab, and Mercy’s out being Mercy someplace not in an active war zone and oh, shit, shit please don’t be Oxton…

He forgets again that Reinhardt is retired, that there’s really only one person he would ever call about.

“Jack… _es tut mir leid_ …” His voice breaks. “Jack, they got Ana.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Maybe probably not entirely timeline compliant? Maybe don’t care so much. Timeline is hard.
> 
> 2\. Thank you again for the wonderful kudos and comments. I can never think of anything interesting to say in return, but I do appreciate them.


	9. Chapter 9

“… mmander? Commander Morrison?”

Life is fragile. 

Jack Morrison - ‘your whimsical, military-industrial complex tax dollars at work’ - is decidedly less so.

“… yeah.” He grunts, fingers curling against the floor. The visor’s fine - Jack specifically specced out something that could withstand a bomb blast because hey, odds. How he hasn’t gone deaf as well as blind is beyond him - and he tries not to question that too much, in case some divine bean counter realizes they’ve missed a step. His head aches - everything aches - but Jack doesn’t think he’s lost much time or snapped any bones - not even his nose. He’s still got all his skin on. Maybe he’s starting to get the hang of this ‘being exploded’ thing. 

Break out the party hats. 

“’m still here, Athena.”

He’s not supposed to be. He’s supposed to be dead and - if Jack can’t get that part right - he should at least know better than to strike up a friendly chat with the goddamn Overwatch support AI.

_You are the worst. Whatever this thing is that you’ve made up, that you think you’re doing? You’re the worst at it._

“… request access to your current location.”

Yeah, that’s not happening. Once Athena’s got it, she’ll have him for good. Jack’s amazed she doesn’t know already, by all rights she should have pinpointed him the second he reached out.

“I have to go.” 

It’s cruel to cut the call, he knows it’s cruel, but Jack’s got other problems at the moment and he never should have called her in the first place. Kicking six years of anonymity right off the cliff for _nothing_ , and it doesn’t matter how good his reasons were or how there wasn’t another choice, it was so goddamn _stupid_ …

The cloud of dust and smoke is practically opaque, but as Jack drags himself up his visor starts picking through it for the important information - the blast radius of the explosion, channeled up and fanned out. If they’d been any less lucky it would have just collapsed the ceiling on them, but somehow everything’s held. The dam’s still in one piece, and it’ll need some serious repairs but it’s solid enough for now. He doubts the men who wanted it down thought they’d need to keep anything in reserve for a second try.

Which leaves him with the only other important detail in this - the Vishkar architech who’d saved them both in the first place. It seems that the world’s seen fit to give her the usual hero’s reward and she’s slumped in a heap by the far wall, not moving.

Jack’s limping a bit, cursing with the first few steps, but something approximating normal by the time he reaches her side. All the readings say she’s alive and going to stay that way - steady pulse and even breathing, no fractures or internal injuries. A nasty blow to the head - there’s blood in her hair, and her headset’s not as durable as his visor - it’s been snapped nearly in two. No sign of her weapon, and her prosthetic arm has taken a beating of its own, though it’s hard to tell just how bad the damage is. His visor doesn’t have the schematics, only approximations of the construction and estimates on the energy readings. 

If Jack had his way, he wouldn’t move her, just leave her for her friends to collect, but it can’t be too good breathing all the crap in the air, and he has one of those fun feelings that the first people to come back here aren’t going to be Vishkar, or real happy now that their plan has failed.

 _Hey, let’s place bets._ the voice of his common sense says, all annoyed resignation as he lifts the unconscious agent, moving toward where the visor says the exit is. _How long do you think it’ll take the Bastion turrets to show up?_

———————————

The last really good day is a surprise. 

Jack wishes he’d known it was coming. He would have… something. Something to make it stay, just for a few moments more. The saying’s not true - even when you know what you’ve got, it’s still gone. It always goes. 

This is one of those flare ups that happens now and then in a post-Crisis world - the new normal. A civil war in a tiny country that seems to roll right from one conflict to the next, but this time someone’s brought in a batch of tech way past their pay grade. Maybe Crisis-era - there are still caches that get uncovered after all these years, like a mine popping up in a long-plowed farmer’s field. Or some enterprising weapons dealer’s feeling particularly inspired - a brand new version of all the old, bad ideas. 

In any case, these Omnics aren’t any more interested in listening to orders than their predecessors were. A few rights groups have raised complaints over the years, Omnics wanting to try to talk sense to their robotic brethren before the bullets start flying - but there’s no legal standing for it, and few people are interested in giving the Omnics a start on a piecemeal army, no matter how good their intentions might be. 

These particular machines have already wandered well past the border of the fight they were meant to win and are making themselves at home in an entirely new country. Contained if not stopped, for the moment, inside what looks like a long-abandoned mining and manufacturing zone - massive buildings with half-broken windows and catwalks along towers leading to nowhere.

Ana’s already there with a team, but it isn’t until Jack arrives that he sees that Reyes and McCree are on the scene, along with a few other Overwatch agents and a fair contingent from the local authorities. He’s finally hit that age where they all look too damned young, even as heavily armed as they are. Jack figures this must be show-and-tell, a training exercise to give the up-and-comers a taste of what the Crisis was like. _Never forget_ is pretty much pointless - they can’t forget what they never knew, when the Crisis now seems mostly like a springboard to greater glories, the reconstruction so successful it erased most of the horror of how it had come to be.

_It’s good, if they never have to fight the way you did. It’s only a good thing._

McCree’s front and center at the moment, talking over the plan. He’s come into his own as one of the best agents on either side of the line. Level-headed in ugly situations, careful and precise underneath all the swagger - even gentle, when he has the opportunity. The way that Gabe - the way that Gabe used to be, his skill with weapons not half as critical as the easy way he had with people. McCree knows how to finesse a bad scene, how to make allies fast and keep them loyal - and he’s an incorrigible flirt even with Mercy - _especially_ with Mercy, because it’s always more fun to make her laugh when she’s trying not to.

If it wouldn’t be more torture than praise, or blow his Blackwatch cover all to hell, Jack would gladly stand McCree up in front of the UN and the world and tell them - this is what we do, this is why it matters. Jesse McCree deserved so much more out of life than what he’d known to aim for, and the world had been equally improved for giving him the opportunity to learn.

“We can take care of the close quarters on this one, boss.” McCree says even now, a font of perpetual confidence. “These Omnics move pretty fast, and there’s no bein’ sure what kind of tech they’ve got up there, an’-“

“Oh, _wow_.” Gabe chuckles. It sounds real. “Are you hearing this shit, Amari? I do believe McCree’s offering to look out for us old folk, so we don’t get hurt.”

“Fighting Omnics is dangerous.” Ana agrees blandly, the smile sparkling in her eyes as McCree deflates, a sheepish hand on the back of his neck.

“Boss, that’s not at all what ah was trying ta…”

“Well, look who they let off the leash.” Gabriel says, as Jack steps across the gravel lot, gazing up at the buildings beyond. One good blast might send them all toppling down, and he’d rather not put any more men in there than they have to.

“Sitrep?”

Jack’s not going to lie - it hurts to watch McCree’s smile evaporate whenever he comes into view, the younger man immediately tense and shuttered. McCree may be everyone else’s friend, but he’s never warmed up to Jack. Still edgy and nervous, like Commander Morrison’s just waiting to hurt him somehow, the moment he lets his guard down. Jack figures he must remind the kid of some unforgiving authority figure from his past - drill sergeant stepfather or dickhead gym coach.

 _“It’s just the way it is,_ cabrón. _You’ve got one of those…” Gabe laughs, after yet another night with yet another bar fight Jack doesn’t know how he got dragged into. It’s not like they can really hurt him, but he hadn’t spoken the language well enough to even understand why he was being hit. “What’s that word, Reinhardt?”_

 _“_ Backpfeifengesicht _. A face for punching.” Reinhard says, with an apologetic look in Jack’s direction. “… and no, he doesn’t.”_

Maybe Jack does. It would explain a few things. He might apologize to McCree, if he thought it would do any good - but then, the other agents have all straightened up too, more nervous and buckled down than they’d been a few moments ago.

“We’ve, ah… got maybe twenty-five or so, sir.” McCree says. “Scattered throughout the buildings, settin’ up a defensive perimeter. Semi-automatic, basic targeting capabilities an’ high maneuverability. As far as we know, they never engaged on their way here, so they’re still plenty topped up on ammunition. Any other surprises, they ain’t sharin’.”

“Old military protocols on 3-D printed chassis.” Gabriel says. “Cheap way to fuck up a battlefield.” 

Or a city. The local soldiers look very uneasy.

Jack studies the blueprints. “Individually autonomous?”

“Yes sir.”

Which eliminates the possibility of Athena shutting them all down remotely. It’s worked for them before, once or twice, although it raises the specter of the Crisis a bit too obviously to make much noise about it. Jack’s tried to downplay her existence from the moment she ‘arrived’ at Overwatch - the AI may be uniquely powerful but she’s also painfully vulnerable, and Jack’s not about to let anyone make her their new Omnic boogeyman.

“Mind if I join in?” Jack says, unslinging his rifle.

“You even remember how to use that thing?” Gabriel drawls.

“You weren’t complaining last night.” Jack says flatly, mostly just to see McCree and a few others blink in surprise, because everyone knows Strike Commander Jack Morrison (TM) doesn’t do things like spit or swear or exchange rounds of tired homoerotic banter and dick jokes. He waits, because there’s a good chance Gabriel is going to tell him not to bother, that he doesn’t need to be here and-

“… _tu madre_.” Reyes mutters, and that’s it, he's in and they're off. Ana quickly sets up the best choke points for whatever might get past them, although if Jack has anything to say about it McCree and his team are in for nothing worse than a very boring afternoon.

“Athena.” Jack says, flicking his eyepiece. “Set up a camera feed for McCree’s team on my view. Just in case we get in trouble.”

That makes Gabriel snort - and the only thing left is the moment’s glance in Jack’s direction when they hit the door. The question of who’s going to take the lead - until Jack steps back without comment. If they’re going to show the young pups how it’s done, it might as well be when they were at their very best.

So it’s Reyes out first, with Morrison a few steps behind and Amari already looking for where she’ll be taking all the most impressive shots. The next five hours of his life pass by in what could be five minutes, and Jack remembers what it feels like, to be exactly where he belongs and it’s all just perfect.

Simple and easy and _perfect_ , a near-silent assault with Gabriel barely having to twitch a finger for Jack to know where he’s going to go and how best to get him there. Gabriel moving fast and sure while Jack flanks each target, distracting them for the crucial moment - the two of them tag-teaming machine after machine while Ana’s shots thwip by with immaculate precision - line ‘em up, take ‘em down.

It doesn’t take more than dropping the first few to realize they’re nothing special, Omnics for people who never fought real Omnics, never stepped into a core, and with no one to evacuate or other pressing urgency, there’s nothing to do but enjoy it. Fighting alongside the two people who know him like no one else in the world knows him, like a pack of wolves against a more dangerous predator and Jack thinks there never really was anything more dangerous, was there? They stopped the Crisis, they neutralized the threat. Nothing should have been able to stop them.

He wonders, later, if Gabe ever thought of taking him out then, just putting a few rounds in him where the cameras wouldn’t see, or setting up an Omnic to do it for him. Why wait so long? Why bother with the show in Switzerland, when he’d had ample opportunity to gun down Jack on a mission or set it up to look like a suicide or any number of equally plausible ways of eliminating someone with a job as dangerous as his. Gabe was Blackwatch - it was literally his job to kill men like Jack and make it look like an accident. 

_Proving a point. Switzerland was proving a point._

Which makes no sense, but Jack hasn’t run on pure reason for a long time. Instinct knows better, even if it doesn’t know why.

The same way Jack’s pretty sure the only thing waiting for him at the end of this is nothing he actually wants at all.

———————————

The Bastion turrets show up first. Two of them, just like he thought. A stroke of luck, that they’re detached from their platforms or anything like AI control, welded onto the back of two heavily reinforced trucks instead. It looks intimidating, but they’re heavy and unwieldy and hardly the most maneuverable pieces of equipment off-road. Good for an ambush, a direct assault on an unsuspecting enemy like they’d had against the guards, but even if he’s lugging around the architech, Jack has a few thoughts on how to keep them at a distance.

The best hope is to escape without ever being seen, but Jack doubts they’re going to get quite that lucky. The sound of engines revving carries through the trees, up to the little hidden niche in the hills that gives Jack a decent-enough perspective on everything immediately below, the visor running commentary on the occasional flicker of color in the green. Cars. Motorcycles. Men on foot - a small army out there, sweeping the area and pushing them away from the cities. The only thing in the other direction is untouched wilderness for at least a hundred miles. It helps that they don’t know he’s here - they think the agent’s on her own. Jack’s useless at the local dialect and the visor’s not much better at cross-referencing most of the words, but ‘find the woman’ has repeated itself often enough to be understood.

If he asked, Athena might still have satellite coverage of the area, might even be able to give him a thermal sweep. Which, of course, is _exactly_ what Genji wants, for Jack to start talking to her again because she’s so damned useful, because it’s familiar. Doesn’t feel so much like a lifetime ago, does it Strike Commander? Define irrevocable, pretend it’s all lost and gone forever now that Overwatch is back and Athena’s just waiting on his call.

Make plans and God laughs, right? Jack can take as many solemn vows he wants, keeps pretending he can hold to each in turn - be a hero, be a dead man, be a soldier - but it’s all so much sand in the tide.

He thinks about it, what it would be like to go back, just to step through the door at Watchpoint Gibraltar and his fingertips go cold and numb and Jack can’t breathe, he can’t _breathe_ …

The Vishkar agent lets out a soft groan, wincing as she slowly lifts herself up from the ground, where she’d been using his coat for what’s not much of a pillow. Yes, she’s the enemy, but she did save his life, even if Jack’s pretty sure that was an unintended consequence. Whatever else might happen, concussions are the exact opposite of fun and he’s not envying her for the rest of this trip.

“Try not to throw up on my jacket, if you can.”

Maybe there’s a non-threatening way to wake up being loomed over by a man in a full face mask carrying an assault rifle, but Jack doesn’t know it. The best he can do is keep his guns holstered and all his expectations low. 

Which is good, as the first thing she does is try to kneecap him with her damaged prosthetic.

“Ow.” 

Jack would warn her of the downside of sudden movements with a head injury, but she figures it out soon enough, the backward scramble away from him quickly devolving into graceless retching in the nearest bush.

“Easy.” Jack holds her hair back because he can’t think of a reason not to that isn’t petty, but steps away the moment she recovers, glaring up at him - more suspicion and hostility than fear in her eyes, wincing as her hand reaches up to examine the wound. Jack can see the fingers on her robotic arm twitching slightly, obviously not the full range of motion she was hoping for and with none of that distinctive hard light flicker. Of course, she’s probably lying, holding back and feigning helplessness. The visor takes note of the current output levels on her arm, set to ping an alarm if there’s any change.

“You took a hard hit when the bomb went off.” Jack pops the top off his water bottle, holding it out, and watches her tense up

“Just water.” He takes a swig to prove it. “You can rinse your mouth out, at least.” He holds it out again, and this time she cautiously accepts. She’s sharp, even for an agent - she’d had the bomb marked and the solution ready in the time it would have taken most people to realize they might want to panic. It doesn’t take her more than a glance to get her bearings - the trees, their position, the folded-up jacket a few inches from her hand. 

“I know who you are. ‘Soldier 76’.” She says calmly. “An odd name for a terrorist.”

He has a reputation already? Jack didn’t think his little incursions onto Vishkar’s territory had been all that interesting so far, but it seems they’re just as legendarily anal-retentive as the rumors say. Jack wonders just how many interns they keep locked up in the basement, working to sift signal from the noise.

“It’s meaningless to keep me.” The agent says, her voice flat, disinterested - though the look in her eyes doesn’t quite match. Indifferent stoicism in the face of an unavoidable fate, but Jack can see the fear there, the way her eyes keep flicking toward his gun. “I won’t tell you anything, and Vishkar does not pay out for ransom demands.”

“Good thing you’re not a hostage, then.” Jack says, casting his gaze back out to the valley below. The visor gives him a peripheral view as good as any head-on, watching her watch him.

“The timer was already… you tried to stop it.” She frowns. “You’re not on our side.”

“God no, you’re all assholes.” Jack agrees. “But you stopped a whole bunch of other assholes from killing a few thousand people, so…”

By the way she’s still frowning, he thinks that maybe she’d almost prefer the logical, bad ending over just shrugging and surviving. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Nope.” Jack’s a free agent now. He doesn’t have to make sense, or explain himself to anyone, not even himself. He doesn’t have to pretend this isn’t stupid and entirely pointless - that he should have just left her behind. Vishkar would feel the loss of someone of her caliber, he’s sure of that. 

_She isn’t a good person, Jack. Protecting corporate assets doesn’t make her a hero._

So he’ll regret it tomorrow. Business as usual.

“Can you walk?”

Jack tries to keep a biotic emitter on him at all times because hey, odds. He’d cleaned out an Overwatch bunker years ago, a fresh batch of Mercy’s top of the line as the best part of the haul, and they’ve kept him going so far. But using one of those now will take much more time than they have, and light up their position like a beacon to everyone and their well-armed cousin. Which is a problem, because it’s obvious just getting to her feet is costing her most of her pride. The agent’s limping badly, her leg threatening to buckle with every other step though she fiercely refuses to make a sound.

Lucky for them, Jack doesn’t own a piece of equipment that’s not set up to do at least double duty, and the harness for the rifle can be refitted to haul quite a few things in a pinch, including wounded comrades or wounded enemies.

“Right.” He says, adjusting the straps. “It’s not perfect, but it’s what we’ve got.” He can hear voices shouting to each other now, coming in their direction. “We need to move.”

She frowns. “Where?”

He makes a vague gesture toward the nearest quiet patch of forest. “We try to get around them, make it back to civilization. Most likely, we’ll have to punch through at a weak spot.” Jack shrugs. “After that, I’m sure there’s a safe place for your friends from Vishkar to come collect you, and you can all go back to making the world a little worse, one day at a time.”

Which covers every part of the plan except the moment she’s going to try to kill him, or at least incapacitate him for the rest of her team to deal with. The alarm he’d set is already pinging - maybe her omnic limb is self-repairing, or maybe she’d just reset some internal mechanism but it’s gaining power by the moment. At least she’s smart enough to leave betrayal for after the firefight. Probably. 

She frowns, readying some argument about his plans or his dismissal of Vishkar, but she never gets the chance. Jack hears the familiar, soft whirr as three drones clear the treetops, one heading straight for them. He’s surprised it took this long. Jack raises his rifle, exhaling slow and easy as the world replaces itself with targeting reticules and simple solutions.


	10. Chapter 10

Ana’s not a color anyone’s supposed to be, a gray sheen on her skin that Jack keeps telling himself he’s not seeing right. He’d rather look anywhere else, except _everywhere_ else is busy bleeding out and Jack knows it’s stupid to think that just looking is enough keep her breathing, somehow keep her _here_ but when he glances away, even when he blinks it’s hard to find it again, the slight rise and fall of her chest.

The part of him that’s soldier is doing all the necessary soldier things, fast and methodical, while the part of him that’s Jack is a thrumming knot of pain and panic and desperation. His hand in her hand, and he’s not sure exactly who he’s begging to in the quiet spaces in between breaths or what he thinks it will accomplish, but he doesn’t know how to stop.

“All you had to do, Amari, was stay in the back row and not die.” Gabriel says, slamming down the box of the supplies they had with them - not enough, not for this. “How is this hard?”

He sounds annoyed, inconvenienced, but Jack can see his own terror reflected there, the way Gabriel’s squeezing her other hand just as tight - _just stay just stay just stay._

It’s all smoke and wreckage and corpses around them. Amari didn’t break position - they’d been flanked, hit from all sides at once and Jack can hear the steady burr of static - the comm’s not working right, where it’s been yanked from the truck and Gabriel leans over just long enough to give it one violent kick into silence. Too broken to work right is not quite broken enough, if anything’s still out there hunting for humans. The three of them had been tapped for rear caravan duty - extra supplies, mostly equipment - and the rest of Overwatch is ahead of them and waiting but by the sound of it, the dull, concussive thuds Jack can barely hear of the edge of the hills - something else beat them to it. If anyone’s coming, it may not be for days.

Ana has minutes, if they’re lucky.

Basic triage was part of the standard training package, so Jack can assist with what Gabriel is doing even if it’s not going to be enough for the damage done - Omnics always hit so fucking hard - and Jack’s not sure exactly what he’s seeing in the mess of blood and worse between scraps of uniform, as Gabriel takes closer examination of the damage - “… don’t think it nicked anything vital.” Nothing here is anything like sterile, and that’s why all the medkits are topped up with the latest in antibiotic biofoam - the current gold standard in hurting the absolute fuck out of you while keeping you alive - but it looks like Gabriel’s got the nozzle pressed in halfway to her damn spine - so much blood, his hands dark red halfway to the elbow - and Ana doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch or make a sound.

What Jack _does_ hear comes as bone-deep dread as much as any audible sound - the subtle, familiar click and hum of weapons system coming online and ready, the tread of heavy metal on the move. If it’s a full, fresh wave of reinforcements - well that’s it, then, they’re just fucked. No one moves, or breathes. Gabriel’s eyes narrow, he flicks two fingers sharply to the side and Jack nods, reaches silently for his rifle and takes off running. 

No need for orders, not when it’s this obvious - destroy the Omnics if he can, get them as far away as he can from Gabe and Ana, no matter what.

It was a small squad they’d accompanied - no one had been expecting any push back, not yet - but soon enough Jack steps over what’s left of a pair of bodies, making his way around the side of the truck, hoping to catch the Omnics from behind. The third body hangs half-in, half out of the open door, staring at him with blank, dead eyes - Jack knows her, knew her. They’d traded jokes that morning, just before heading out. 

It is more than a little terrifying, all the moments he doesn’t think about because there’s no point thinking about it. How there’s no one else, no ‘regroup and redeploy’ - this is it, and they stop it now or it’s pass off the keys to the Omnics and the last human out, turn off the lights.

At least there’s not much to argue over. Morally, this is the easiest battle humanity’s ever had - no question of right and wrong, no wondering if the fight is worth it. No place they don’t push the machines back that the survivors - if there are survivors - aren’t cheering in the streets. Enlistment in every country, all over the world is up by a hundred-fifty, two-hundred percent. If humanity’s on its way out, they’re sure the hell not going down quietly.

Of course, the bad news is that they were also the ones who built these machines for killing people in the first place, and the Omnics are pretty fantastic at it. The back-and-forth dance of perpetually competing technologies usually gives each side about a week before whatever advantages they have get neutralized - the real advances get held in reserve for the big pushes, for breaching the next Omnium. Bizarrely, it doesn’t seem like the machines bother much with coordinating - each Omnium preferring to play god-emperor in its own little court, which may be one of the only small miracles of the entire Crisis.

Thankfully, at the moment it looks like Jack’s only dealing with three of the little ones - and it says something about how long he’s been doing this that the ‘little ones’ are still about half the size of a car each, a few tons of metal with a quarter ton of ammunition on top of that, perched on long legs that are perfect for running down their prey. Fast and nimble, they’d been easily able to overtake the caravan even at full speed. They’ve got an official designation, like all the other Omnics, although there are far easier ways to describe them - the ‘tall motherfuckers’, the ‘blinky motherfuckers’, the ‘motherfuckers _inside_ the other motherfuckers’.

These would be the ‘cheetah motherfuckers,’ and Jack’s never had to deal with three, not on his own.

Gabe and Ana are counting on him.

Omnic rules of engagement are fairly simple. Stay out of sight. Keep moving. Set traps, when available. Get the Omnics to fire at each other, if you can, and let them do the work for you. Be a jacked-up government experiment from one of the better-funded initiatives, if it’s at all possible.

Get really, really goddamn lucky.

The Omnics are already too close to Gabe’s position - Jack’s going to have to work this problem running.

They’re robots - smart robots, sure, and they may not need to eat or sleep but they’re still built from the ground up and they still have weaknesses - and the truck two back from the vanguard was specifically carrying the military’s latest allotment of shiny new toys. It’s lying at an lucky angle for him, on its side with the rear of the cab pointed away from the Omnics, and Jack sneaks around to the back, gives himself one slow breath to get ready - reaches up for the handle of the door and pulls with all he’s got. It’s quieter than shooting through the lock, but still not silent, and even as Jack scrambles inside he can feel the thud of steel against the ground as the first of the machines charges his way.

Basic Omnic troops are all programmed to be aggressive - it’s a hive mind, individual survival not nearly as important as eliminating the target, which means the first one cares more about flushing him out than about being cautious. Jack knows how it will move - the shortest distance from there to here. 

So that’s where he stuck the mine.

He’s scrambling blindly, but luckily the most powerful weapon they had was also the best secured, still firmly locked in its case against what used to be the wall, now the floor, and Jack picks expedience over grace, tearing a few new gashes in his hand as he rips the case clean away, catching the gun before it can hit the ground. Forty seconds to full charge - this is going to be tight.

Jack digs his other hand into the netting just as the explosion spins the truck on its side - only to rebound in the other direction with a neck-snapping jolt, off what Jack can only hope is the remains of a now-inactive Omnic. He braces himself, hoping where he thinks he’s landed is anything like the truth, that the Omnics are where he thinks they ought to be - and Jack lunges out of the back of the truck, diving hard to the right for cover even as he hears the whirr of turrets tracking his movements.

The best they can figure, he and Gabe and the dwindling ranks of the SEP are black swans - they don’t fit quite right into Omnic calculations. Human-looking, but faster and stronger and that doesn’t mean much against a wall of Omnics and artillery but on the small scale, sometimes it’s just enough. Like now, with bullets pinging off the metal behind him because the Omnic’s not expecting how fast he can move, until Jack turns as he dives for cover, the barest slowdown that still earns him a blaze of pain, a bullet grazing his thigh. 

He hears the soft chime as the gun in his hand comes fully online, and Jack brings it up and - _here goes_ \- pulls the trigger and -

The whole world burns out in a blaze of screaming white, the kickback of the electric charge leaving him gasping. It shorts out in his hands, until Jack either has to drop it or have a heart attack but it’s done what he needs it to do. The blast was like a shot of ball lightning, catching the Omnic head on. The shielding on them varies by continent and build - low-level EMP’s and overloads won’t make the larger builds so much as twitch, but this gun had a little more love to give - and the Omnic lets out a high-pitched screech, convulsing, its own guns firing wildly before it collapses in a spasming heap, finally going dark and still.

Two down, and the thought passes by that Gabe can handle one by himself, no problem. Even if Jack makes a mistake now, they won’t pay for it. 

Of course, he could always just survive.

The burst of electricity had been strong enough to arc to the second Omnic, and though it couldn’t take it down entirely, Jack can hear the guns clicking - offline. Which sends it into its secondary attack mode, those two front limbs tapered to railroad spikes that can perforate tanks and strike with stunning speed and accuracy. It’s a fun little dance, then, Jack not managing to get more than a shot or two off before he has to leap away or be run through. The terrain is ugly and uneven - if he stumbles in a hole or slides on a bit of debris, he’s dead. Of course, the Omnic’s not without it’s vulnerabilities - they all have joints, servos, any part that has to give up armor for mobility. Jack tries to keep whatever he can between him and it, grabs a torn-off door from a pile of wreckage and throws it like a discus, knocking it a half-step back, missing one of the main leg cables by inches. The Omnic isn’t any closer to taking him down, but Jack’s going to get tired before it does.

Which is when he hears the squeal of moving metal and the sound of another gun coming online behind him. The first Omnic, blown half to pieces but still with enough left to target, to swing its primary weapon around.

_Let them do the work for you._

It’s pretty much insanity, putting himself between the lunging Omnic and a gun pointed at his back. If Jack were anything other than what he is, it would just be a race for which one would kill him first - but it’s not, and the world slides into slow-motion as the metal spike comes rushing toward him and Jack drops, rolls out of the way as one Omnic skewers what’s left of the other, rewarded with a hundred or so bullets in its processor before both machines go dark.

He crouches where he lands, adrenaline still flooding him so hard it feels like a crackling outline through each of his muscles as he drags in air, open-mouthed and silent. Listening, ready for any other sound of electronic life. Nothing comes, and these aren’t the sort of machines that usually play decoy. Jack sketches a slow, wary circle toward the one nearest him anyway, making sure to keep as much of a swing distance as he can between himself and those motionless guns. It doesn’t move, and Jack throws a rock as hard as he can, hears something crack and then sizzle and it still doesn’t move.

Victory.

Jack works fast, a piece of the wreckage serving as a decent prybar, cracking open the flickering brains of the thing. Torbjörn taught them how to do this, built the ‘spikes’ himself - Jack’s not entirely certain of the particulars, as he throws his whole weight into jamming the sharp piece of metal and wire-work deep into the Omnic’s last few fizzling synapses. It makes echoes, sends out all-clears and false-positives of victory to keep other machines away, pinging out dummy signals far from their current position to lead any nearby Omnics in hot pursuit of nothing. It doesn’t always work, but Jack will take what he can get. 

Stupid to think he might find someone still alive up at the front - they took the worst of the hit - and there’s nothing left to see but a few red smears across charred metal and asphalt. At least it was quick. Jack can usually say that, and be confident that he’s right.

“I’m sorry.” He says quietly to no one in particular, with acrid smoke and that sweet, plasticky smell dead Omnics sometimes leave behind laying thick in the back of his throat. The only prayer he has time for. “I’m sorry.”

He burns his hands, prying what’s left of the still-molten door off what’s left of the medical truck, and there’s not much to salvage for his trouble. Jack sweeps it all into a bag anyway, to be sorted out later, and makes the the return trip at a dead run, already bracing for what he might find.

Ana’s still alive, now buried in layers of tape and adhesive sutures and pressure bandages. Barely breathing, but that’s still breathing. Gabriel tilts his head slightly in question, and Jack nods back - and that’s everything worth saying about the fight. 

Ana makes a little choking sound, and Jack’s own breath stutters out.

“We’re losing her.” Gabriel says. “She’s lost too much blood.”

Jack’s already digging through the supplies for the tubes and the needles he knows are in there. No blood packs, nothing that lucky - but they’re both universal donors - one of the boxes the SEP liked to check off on their ideal, super-soldier Christmas list. It’s an emergency designation more than a fact, but this certainly counts - and even then, it could kill her. It’s not something they’re supposed to do for anyone who isn’t SEP, under any circumstances. It’s probably going to kill her. 

She’ll die if they don’t.

“Fuck it, we have to.” Gabriel nods, coming to the same conclusion. “We have to. Do it.”

So they do, with Jack prepping the equipment, trying to find a vein in among the patchwork of Ana’s bandages while Gabriel actually reads to him from some instruction sheet he’s dug out on how this is all supposed to go, like they’re putting together the world’s most fucked up IKEA table - _the Amaarïï?_ \- and Jack giggles frantically through gritted teeth, he can’t help it. His hands are steady, moving fast and calm but Gabe still gives him a long look.

“Don’t you die on me, Amari.” He says, one thumb brushing lightly against Ana’s cheek. “If you die, Morrison’s going to lose his shit and I’ll have to drag his weepy, bitch ass all the way back to civilization and I do not have that kind of time, _chica_ , are we clear?”

He gets them through it - Gabriel pulls them all through the unending shitstorm of the Crisis - literally, when he has to. Later on, it’ll be almost impossible for Jack to think about those days without the feeling of a hand grabbing him by the shoulder and _‘move, motherfucker!’_ ringing in his ears. Gabriel talks the biggest game with the most attitude because it takes everyone’s attention off the rest of it - how many people they lose and how many cities are already gone for good, what seems like half the world already razed into a parking lot. 

The way Ana’s tattoo looks darker than ever against her skin, and Jack knows it’s not from that sort of a god and not that kind of a prayer but - _hey, if you feel like helping out? I won’t tell._

The night is windy, the moon mostly lost behind a thick, twisting blanket of grays and he and Reyes spend it trading off on tapping veins and holding Ana close, trying to keep her warm in between taking watch and raiding the wreckage for extra ammunition and the half-case of water Gabriel somehow finds sitting untouched in the middle of the road, one of those stupid, impossible things that happens in a war. Every now and then, over the edge of the infinite horizon there will be a sudden flash, or a thud - so far away it almost doesn’t sound like what it is. The battle they weren’t expecting is still raging. Jack hopes to god they’re winning.

One hour turns into five, and five to eight, and nobody shows up to kill them. The dawn comes, and Ana stays. 

Jack’s sleeping light, somewhere around hour fourteen, and he’s not entirely sure what wakes him but when he looks down Ana’s looking back up at him. He watches her eyes slowly trace the line going from his body to hers, her lips shaping the word she doesn’t have the strength to say - _Reyes?_

“Right here.” Jack says, as Gabriel kneels down at her other side. 

“Well, that’s a couple dozen federal laws we just broke. Hell, it’s probably treason.” Gabriel says, the backs of his knuckles skimming against Ana’s other arm, finding one bare, undamaged spot among the bandages. Jack sees her eyebrow raise, when she notices his own sleeve still rolled up, though the latest mark has already healed. “So, I’d say we’re even for that time you bought lunch.”

“How are you feeling?” Jack says. 

Ana looks between the two of them, and then at her own arm, thoughtfully, before she gathers the strength to speak.

“Forty percent more of an asshole.” She says, and falls asleep in Jack’s arms.

“Only forty percent?” Gabriel says. 

Jack shrugs, trying not to shake with relief. “I guess she’s rounding down.” 

Ana doesn’t become a super-soldier, but it’s hard to say that there are zero side-effects. Jack swears she heals a little faster from that fight, maybe leaves the night vision off a little longer in the twilight hours. He hopes it’s true, likes to think that he and Gabriel are there with her now, even when they’re apart, always protecting her.

As a rule, Gabriel writes very concise reports - and this one is particularly light on the details.

—————————-

Jack glances up to the sky - his visor says a little before noon, local time, and they’re no closer to being out of this mess. He can’t imagine dealing with any single Vishkar agent could be worth the amount of mercenaries that have swarmed into the valley - which means this little alliance might have some backers with deeper pockets, maybe a competing interest. Or it might all be on the verge of collapse, and somebody’s throwing their weight around, or they’re just real pissed their plan didn’t work. It’s amazing how much can happen when people take things personally.

It’s been slower going than he’d anticipated, trying to pick a path through the unforgiving terrain without attracting attention, doubling back only to double back again, dropping down every time one of those turrets goes rumbling by or a group of men gets too close. The agent does a good job of watching his six, her voice low in his ear when she notices any sign of movement, or an alternate path only visible once they’d passed it by. Other than that she’s mostly silent, letting out only a slight hiss now and then when he can’t help but jostle her. 

He’s not expecting to feel her flinch, the first time he takes down an enemy - or later, when they don’t notice the patrol until the two men are all but on top of them and in the half-second it takes them to figure out what they’re actually looking at Jack has the butt of the rifle into the first man’s chin - not fast enough to keep the second from shouting, though Jack drops him even as he’s raising his gun.

He does his best in the minutes that follow to get as far as possible as silently as possible from the mob converging on their location, with the agent’s head down against his shoulder and her legs tucked in tight. Curled as carefully as she can against his back, while Jack wonders about that little sound she’d made in the middle of the fight, the way her hand had tightened on his arm.

Squeamish about killing? It’s hardly Jack’s favorite way to spend a day, but in the ‘private security’ sector the general sentiment runs mostly toward indifference - you play the game, you take the chances - with a few freelancers here and there who really do relish the bloodsport. Sadists and butchers that few tend to employ for any longer than they have to - more unpredictable than they’re worth. Evil business is still business.

They’ve got a moment to breathe now, which is good because Jack could use it. He helps the agent down, propping her up against a rock before he drains the last of the water, refills it from the stream and adds one of those purifying tablets that make it taste like Winston used it to wash out old test tubes. Jack takes another long drink before he hands the rest to her, and she rolls the bottle for a moment between her hands, looking at nothing.

“We don’t make the world worse.”

“How’s your head?” Jack says. Is she really still thinking about what he said, hours ago? At least her memory’s all right. Jack can still see her wince when the light catches her full on, and what he can see of her leg is about a dozen different colors of mottled pain but it’s nothing that can’t be fixed once they get out of here.

“Vishkar doesn’t make the world worse. We only want to bring harmony, order and purpose.”

Jack’s not saying that the entire concept of PR should be launched screaming into the sun, but if they already had it tied it to the rocket and just needed to borrow a match…

“What were you trying to steal from us?,” she asks

“Any chance your friends plan on showing up?” Jack says, so they both can have a question not to answer. He stretches his shoulders back, checking the sidearm and then the rifle out of habit, pondering their options. At this point, it might be worth it to just keep hiding until nightfall, and hope either the local authorities finally deign to investigate, or the darkness improves their chances.

“Why don’t you just let them have me?” The agent says quietly.

“Why did you put that shield around the both of us?”

She frowns, irritated, and Jack nearly smiles.

“You would be useful for questioning.”

The spot he’s found them is another with decent altitude and cover - if still not concealed enough to risk an emitter. At least it seems their enemy has run out of drones, and a few timed charges in the right spots have been a good distraction, cranking up the tension among the already irate opposition - Jack’s added several colorful swear words to his growing local lexicon.

He’s surprised by the small, blue flicker, turns to watch the agent’s hands move through the air, plucking invisible threads. Jack thought for sure she’d wait, an advantage not worth revealing until his back was turned - but she’s swiftly moving through what Jack can only assume is some sort of training diagnostic, a flawless, dynamic origami - blue triangle to blue star to blue flower, opening its petals in her hand to become a blue butterfly of remarkable detail that lifts its wings gently once and again, before the wings go flat and an even smaller, even more intricate city rises up along the plane. 

Jack’s not sure how many angels can dance on the head of a pin, but he can guess who will try to put them there. 

“Impressive.” It’s true, he might as well say it. The agent doesn’t look up, although there’s the hint of what might be a smile at one corner of her mouth.

“I practice.”

Vishkar didn’t get where they were solely on dubious business practices and questionable acquisitions - they’ve got the tech to back it up, hard-light an offshoot of the Omnic building boom that’s quickly turning this era’s construction workers into the weavers and craftsmen of the last Industrial Revolution. It’s not fair, and arguably not even for the best, but when has that changed anything? 

Jack wonders, now and then, if he might just live long enough to see how it all is going to turn out, if humanity will actually build those wings before they slam into the ground for good. Technology is either going to destroy them or be their saving grace, but the one thing it’s never going to do is stop.

The agent makes a soft, frustrated sound as the image flickers, fades and falls apart - the prosthetic limb recharged but not at full function, damaged somehow - or at least, she’s going to pretend it is.

Jack had noticed the incisions where her Omnic arm had been attached to the shoulder - mostly because there weren’t any to see, the work was flawless. No signs of trauma at all, which meant it was a voluntary amputation. 

He remembers Jesse McCree waking up in the medbay, dragged out of the mission that had gone bad enough to take his arm along with it. Overwatch and Blackwatch shared support crews when the damage was ugly enough, when the fix had to be perfect - a Mercy job. He remembers the look on McCree’s face, studying his replacement limb - high grade, the most advanced Overwatch could provide - with a mix of awe and relief that had been painful to see. An arm like that carried a lot of meaning in the right places. Jack had thought he would be angry, grieving for the loss, but it was clear McCree thought the new limb only meant he was worth the investment, a person worth keeping around. A kind of gratitude they didn’t deserve - that no one could deserve.

“What we do is noble.”

Jack snorts. “Enjoy that while it lasts.”

“Where I grew up, we had nothing.” She says, refusing to back down. “We were poor, no one cared. I went hungry and drank filthy water. There was no money for doctors or schooling. If it weren’t for Vishkar, I would be there still. Or dead.”

A true believer, then. Exactly the sort of woman who would trade unswerving devotion for a career and a shiny new arm and still consider herself fully indebted. Can Jack really blame her? He’d been a patriot once, thought he’d understood the oaths he’d sworn and the people he’d sworn them to. Of course, that was before the end of the Crisis and the rise of a UN more powerful than it had ever been before - and six solid months of the US government hinting that he and Reyes and even the washouts from the SEP might permanently be considered federal property. 

Jack tries to remember it, because it’s true - there’s really nothing the world hasn’t thrown his way that it doesn’t gleefully dole out to people with none of the advantages he’s had, people surviving against odds he can’t even imagine. Overwatch tried to help girls like her - they _had_ helped. Mercy alone had developed or co-chaired more projects than Jack could count - crisis-response, building schools, working with local governments on development and poverty alleviation - but pick any spot on the globe at any time and there will always be more people that need help than there are the resources to do it. Vishkar offered her an opportunity, and even with strings attached it was better than no offer at all. What else should she have done?

“It’s none of my business.”

“It is when you’re judging me.” The agent says. “We’re making the world a better place.”

“What if they don’t want it?” Jack growls, because this is what’s raising warning flags about Vishkar, not just the money and the ambition but the righteous fervor underneath it all. They want to change the world, and they think they’re right to do it and people like that can call _anything_ acceptable losses in the pursuit of their goal. Jack’s read a lot of history, and one thing he knows for sure is that all the greatest movements, the grandest ideas - they never last. Even when they win, it isn’t forever - governments change, kings give up their thrones, ideologies fall out of fashion. The only permanent thing are all the people who die along the way, sacrificed for a perfect world that’s just never going to happen.

How many people died propping up the myth of Overwatch?

“What if you’re right, what if you and your people are completely _right_ , and the world still isn’t interested in what you have to offer? What are you going to do then? Force them? What do you do when they fight back?”

Jack expects the glossy brochure answer - no doubt Vishkar has one ready to go - but surprisingly, the agent doesn’t say a thing. The look on her face is quiet and subtle and painfully familiar - at some point, something has already happened that didn’t quite match the party line. She’s seen it, the first crack in the facade, in all the truths she’s anchored her life to and she can’t quite shake that epiphany, even as she tries to convince herself it can’t be as bad as it seems. 

He feels like he’s staring at her across a vast gulf of time, watching her take those first tentative steps into what she doesn’t know is a minefield - and if she were able to shrug and not care or look the other way it wouldn’t be a problem but Jack thinks it won’t be that easy for her. Enemy or not, this agent has principles. 

God, she’s so screwed.

“What happened the last time you disobeyed an order?” He says.

The agent tenses, angry, thinking he’s mocking her somehow - no, she’s _never_ disobeyed an order. Jack wishes there was a way to explain it, distill all his years of living into any kind of warning she might understand.

“If you don’t have an exit strategy, I’d make it a priority.”

She won’t listen, Jack already knows that. Would he have, in her place?

A fireball rises up in the distance, and Jack hears a new, excited chatter of voices over the channel he’s hacked into - and some of those voices, the visor has trouble translating for entirely new reasons.

“Omnics?” The agent says.

“Better than that.” Jack says, reaching down to hoist her back onto his shoulders. “Australians.”

——————————————

“They will need someone to speak at the memorial.” Reinhardt says.

It’s day three of the worst day of his life. Maybe four. All the dates are just numbers in squares now. Jack’s only tried to text Ana twice, at least - muscle memory halfway through the sentence before the realization kicks in.

_Hey Amari, pick up. You’re dead and I need you to tell me what comes next._

There are no stages of grief, there is no slow but inevitable acceptance. The only thing Jack knows how to do is raze everything he can between him and the realization, dig a firebreak and pray it doesn’t jump the gap.

It wasn’t supposed to happen, not _now_ , not this late in the game. Ana was the smart one, she always knew the terrain and she always looked ahead and she didn’t take stupid risks. The contest was always whether Jack or Torbjörn would die first because they were by far the craziest bastards on the team - there was a vote, it was a tie. Jack doesn't think he’s got any particular death wish - it’s not even about bravery. He just sees what needs to be done and does it. It’s hesitation that’s the killer.

He’s good at that. He’s bad at this. Real bad, even though Jack has done it a hundred times before for fallen fellow soldiers or public figures when it’s necessary or somehow might bring some comfort, that the Strike Commander recognizes their loss. At least it’s not a lie, even if the words aren’t his. It matters, it does - that sacrifice, that choice. _Greater love hath no man than this…_ He’d spoken at the Lacroix’ funeral - closed casket, one body for two coffins - but Jack also paid for that eulogy, extra freelance from his best speechwriter. 

The UN would probably shit a few brick factories if they realized just how much of that responsibility he’s ceded to Athena over the years - all the grand oratories of the ages, all the poets who ever lived engraved on some dime-sized circuit in her sub-processors. She’s pretty good at it - she makes him sound human.

At least there’s no media, no public display. Ana kept out of the spotlight as much as she could, even in her home country, the mention of her death barely a line on the crawl at the bottom of the 24-hour news parade, one of the Overwatch old guard finally checking out. Jack receives a few condolences from diplomats and heads of state, written by administrative assistants and signed by stamp. Former Under-Secretary Adawe hand-writes her letter, several pages full of memories of Amari - her service and her skill and her bravery. A weary shakiness to a few of the words, especially near the end of the page. Jack thinks about how he’s so much closer to her age than most of the field agents currently in his care.

He would have spent the rest of his life with Ana, if she’d let him. Jack knows it, now - each of them was just waiting for the other to call it a day.

The funeral’s already happened - in Egypt, with nothing to bury - and Jack’s phone has been a stone in his hand with half the numbers dialed, and then a blinking cursor on the screen as if an e-mail was in any possible way the appropriate response. There is no appropriate response.

_First Lieutenant Amari, my condolen-_

_Fareeha, your mother was-_

_Fareeha, you don’t need me to tell you that your mother was-_

_It should have been me, Fee. It was a routine mission, nothing was supposed to happen. I wish to god I’d been there. I wish it had been me._

“Jack?” Reinhardt says his name, possibly not for the first time, because he’s right - somebody has to speak. A rush of belated, overwhelming horror, because obviously it’s supposed to be him, it’s his job. Ana was his SIC and this is his job and he’s supposed to make this okay, he’s supposed to make it mean something when all Jack really wants to do is lie down someplace dark and never get up again.

_How it all started, maybe? Is that the story to tell? How they’d met Ana two days before they met her, under fire on their way to the rendezvous because the entire world was hot and no plans ever seemed to last even halfway to the battlefield. How they’d argued, in between waves of attacking fighters, about just where the hell the sniper could have been firing from, the better vantage points too far for the kind of accuracy that was taking down Omnics two and three at a time with a single bullet._

_How, two days later, they’d been shuffled into a meeting room. Freshly scrubbed and debriefed and running on maybe eight hours sleep split among the five of them. Jack had only been grateful that Gabriel would be the one speaking for the team, that he could just stand between Torbjörn and Liao and try not wobble into anyone. The Egyptian military had been very prickly about the chain of command and just as annoyed about giving over one of their best snipers to some experimental initiative - he’d heard the words ‘questionable advantages’ several times, along with ‘provisional arrangement’ and the clear understanding that the rest of them could go die in a fire as long as Ana Amari returned in one piece._

_At the time, Jack was punch-drunk enough to do little more than wonder who would put any wallpaper_ that _green on the walls, an emerald so vibrant he could almost hear it shouting at him - and then the door had opened, and there was an ambassador and a general, and behind them their mystery sniper and…_

_Once upon a time, a boy met a girl at the end of the world. A soldier met a warrior, a protector - and he never could tell if she was his mirror or he was her reflection, and both were true. Once upon a time, a boy met a girl, and the boy’s heart said - ‘oh. Oh, there you are.’_

Jack tries to speak, to say… he has no idea, absolutely no idea. 

“It’s all right.” A large, warm hand covers his own, patting gently. “It’s all right, Jack. I will talk.”

He does. Reinhardt’s a good soldier and a better man, and everyone’s assembled for this - men and women from practically every Watchpoint who’d ever fought or worked with Ana - which means a good contingent from Blackwatch is present as well, with Reyes up front and center, hands behind his back and head bowed and he looks at no one. It’s not quite as easy to tell who’s on which team, with everyone in the same somber shades. Jack barely processes any of it, only vaguely hears the rumble of Reinhardt’s voice. His eyes are dry, as he watches a cloud pass its slow, blank shadow across the floor. 

It should get easier with time, with the repetition over the years. They’re soldiers, these are the risks. Jack remembers those first months of the Crisis, before Overwatch, when it seemed he’d wake up with a brand new squad every week. Reports coming in at a steady pace - the graduating class of the SEP picked off one by one, all over the world. He’d lost a lot of good friends, he’d grieved for them - but it hurts more now to lose than it ever did before. Jack’s old enough to understand it now, just how much they’d sacrificed, what all those years of living feel like. Watching Ana’s daughter grow into a brave, beautiful woman - fearless, and damn good on the field - and Jack had been there for so much of that, had seen the time and the care it took. A single bullet, one moment of inattention could make all that effort meaningless. It seems so much more cruel than when he was young.

He’ll have to send Fareeha the copy of her mother’s audio files. Athena has all of them - voice mail messages and personal notes and they’ve already been scrubbed to the last zero in case there was anything hiding inside, any warning she’d tried to give them, a clue about the ambush that had left her KIA - _MIA, she’s MIA, Jack. You couldn’t even bring her home._ \- but there’s nothing. Jack has them all saved in his own archives, every scrap of her that’s been left behind, even though he has yet to listen to them himself. It’s mostly business, he knows that. Ana didn’t have much use for words, and he’s not going to find her there.

The memorial ends. Jack slips away from his people, still sharing stories, and goes back to his office, needing the door between himself and the rest of the world. He doesn’t register the steps behind him in the hallway, but the voice is really no surprise.

“You know they’ve got her, right?”

The second-floor hall of this particular Watchpoint curves around the side of the whole building, top-to-bottom windows letting in a beautiful, late-morning sun. It does none of them any favors. 

Jack turns back, slowly. McCree is at Reyes’ side, as usual, though this is the first time Jack’s seen him without the hat. His eyes are red-rimmed - he looks lost, sucker-punched. Jack wants to apologize to him, too, wants to say _I know_ and _I’m sorry_ and _I don’t know what to do, either._

Gabriel looks like he hasn’t slept in days, the only thing keeping him up a rage that’s burning as far down as Jack can see. He knows that look, and distantly Jack has the thought that whatever’s about to happen here is not really going to go well. At all. 

“We don’t have a body, Morrison. Nothing to bury.” Gabriel snarls, and Jack feels his whole chest just sort of seize up, like a heart attack that’s dragged all his other organs into the fun because yes, yes he’s aware of that and he’s aware of what it means and just because he hasn’t said it out loud doesn’t mean he doesn’t know. The sort of nightmare scenario that’s been in the back of his mind for years - that Talon’s never stopped refining their process and that this was one of theirs, a textbook hit. Which means Ana might not be dead, and even now…

“They’ve got her, and they’re _torturing_ her-“ Gabriel’s voice cracks, although his expression doesn’t change, “and here you are as usual, thumb-in-ass because nobody’s told you to have an opinion yet.”

He’s looked. Jack’s _been_ looking with every resource at Overwatch’s disposal and Athena tearing through data at twice that speed and the only thing he hasn’t done is fly there himself and start kicking over rocks because he’d been urged not to, to at least wait for any hint of a clue. Gabriel isn’t out there either, because he knows what Jack knows - there’s nothing, there’s a big, flat nothing - and there wasn’t anything with Amélie either, was there? Not until Talon wanted there to be.

“Jack Morrison. Everyone’s hero. Except for his SIC. Big surprise. You think she was surprised?” The smirk’s there, but it also sounds like someone’s cutting Gabriel up from the inside. Jack knows the feeling. “The finest boot-licking machine modern science ever slapped together. What fucking good are you, anyway? What actual use have you _ever_ been?”

“Boss.” McCree says, quietly, but it’s too late to put on the brakes on this. Years too late. 

“This is all me now?” Jack says. “Of course it is, of course. _Where the fuck were you_?!” He just lets go, grabs on to the anger with both hands, the rage pure and clean and the first thing Jack’s been able to feel since the phone call, since Reinhardt somehow decided it wouldn’t be kinder just to cave his chest in with the hammer. “Mr. Blackwatch, Mr. I’m-So-Much-Better-Than-The-Fucking-Rules-‘ _El Jefe Motherfucker_ ’ - where the fuck were _you_?!” He moves in, keeps his eyes fixed on Gabe’s. “Oh, you’re so _hard_ , aren’t you, Black Ops? You’re so _scary_ , everyone just shits themselves running - except the enemy, when it actually matters.”

Is Ana out there somewhere? Are they hurting her right now? Is she thinking Jack will find her, and he’s not even looking, because he doesn’t know where to start? How the fuck can he, of all the people on the planet, not fucking know? Jack thought he’d understood what it was like for Gérard, but he’d hadn’t had the first goddamn clue.

“If you’re so much better than me, _big man_ , why the _fuck_ didn’t you see it coming? Why didn’t _you_ have her back?” 

Jack snarls the last few words right into Gabriel’s face, standing toe-to-toe. Reyes has always towered over him, ever since basic, a little broader in the shoulders and a little more muscle all around and who gives a shit? He’d been ‘Jack the Giant Killer’ for years after the shit he’d pulled in those early days of the Crisis - Gabriel had been the one to grant him the title - and if he thought that had changed after all his time, if he thought Jack even knew _how_ to stand down…

McCree’s taken several steps back, and out of the corner of his eye Jack can see him tap a finger against his ear. On the comms, alerting someone to what they’re never going to get here in time to stop.

“You know why they picked you, Morrison? Do you?”

Here they are again - verse, chorus, verse. Follow the bouncing ball. “Everyone knows. I’m blonde and pretty and I follow orders.”

As if he would have put anything or anyone ahead of saving Ana - as if _anything_ could have stopped him, if he’d known… 

As if Jack’s loyalty made the slightest difference to her at all, in the end.

“Strike Commander Photoshop.” Gabriel snarls. “You don’t care - you never did, you don’t even know _how_. I could squeeze more humanity out of a fucking pocket calculator.”

“It’s still better than what you are, Reyes.” He promised himself, a long time ago, that he’d never lord his position over Gabe, never dig into the tender spots he knew were there. A few minutes from now, when he’s bouncing off the first of several cars he’ll end up paying to replace, Jack will have the fleeting thought that there are very few promises in his life he’s actually managed to keep.

“Yeah?” Gabriel smiles, and Jack is smiling too and it’s all baring fangs, just savoring the moment. Three days without Ana, and here they are. It’s surprising it took this long.

“Yeah, and what am I?”

“Someone who needs me to tell him.”

Jack could try to dodge the first punch, but he doesn’t - because the funny part is, Gabe’s not wrong. It is Jack’s fault. All of it. He can’t feel what he felt for Ana, and lose her anyway, and not be the one to blame.

It’s easier to take the hit than to feel anything else. Easier to fight than remember. Neither of them are holding back and both of them are still one-hundred-ten percent bona-fide super soldier - there’s buckling plaster and snapping beams when Gabriel just tosses him half a foot into the wall. Jack lunges out, with a snarl that isn’t remotely human, tackling Gabriel and throwing them both with relative ease over the railing, right through the second-story window into the Watchpoint parking lot.

A preview of coming events.

————————————————

Well, that’s half the valley on fire.

Junkers don’t really bother with subtle, not when there’s a reputation to uphold and crazy brings the paychecks. Of course, no amount of money can buy them what they really want - even the ones too young to remember still seem to feel the loss - and so the destruction is mostly aimless, with very little ambition and mercurial goals. Jack’s seen them take a battlefield only to turn around and start firing on their allies, seemingly for the fun of it. Only loyal to their own, and with combat as normal in their daily routine as the morning cup of coffee, a half-dozen of them are as dangerous as the rest of the idiots in this valley combined.

Howls and roars echo in the distance, but the voice giving orders on the comms is all business, not playing to the crowd.

“- an’ if you don’t want me to shoot you after, _don’t hit the arm_! It’s worth three times what they’re paying us, easy.”

Already planning to defect on their new employers? Greed is a truly magnificent thing, and Jack can imagine the market for reverse-engineering Vishkar tech is on the up-and-up. The mercs don’t know that Jack’s listening in, and don’t know what he does. They can’t feel the slight twitch in that Omnic arm they’re so interested in taking for their own, as the agent updates her secret message to the Vishkar reinforcements that sure are taking their sweet-ass time getting here. Morse code. Clever.

“If they go after the dam…” The agent says.

The large cloud of dust from the main road suggesting the mercs are headed in that direction, and fast. It’s probably a bluff, forcing her to come to them - but if anyone did have the firepower to bring it crashing down…

Jack hears the motorcycle moving toward them - a good deal of the lesser firepower is evacuating, the small-town gangsters having realized they’re little more than easily-perforated clutter in between these new guns and their prey. A wise tactical decision - although not for this one, as the agent reaches out her hand and snaps up a barrier that neatly clotheslines the rider as Jack catches the bike by the handlebars, swinging it around. 

“Not a lot of armor on this thing.” Jack says.

“Just drive. Quickly.” The agent says - orders, really - and Jack glances back, but her gaze is distant, already planning several moves ahead. At least she’s feeling better. Or maybe she’s just thinking what he is - that the closer the mercs get to the dam, the better they can aim at the dam. If they even bother aiming. Jack’s not sure if slamming a truck full-speed into the side would be enough to finish what they’d started, but he’d rather not find out.

The area’s not completely abandoned, although they’re moving fast enough that there’s not much time for more than surprised shouts, a few stray bullets pinging off the shield the agent’s raised around them - at least that’s the armor problem solved. Luckily, the mercs and these men don’t seem to be communicating much, and the last few hours of hide-and-seek have likely granted them a few moments worth of surprise, now that they’ve suddenly taken the initiative.

At the next rise, Jack gets a split-second view of what they’re up against. It’s not as slapdash as he was hoping for - and there might be some credence to the battering ram theory. No surprise the mercs have commandeered both of the Bastion turrets into service, one in front and one trailing behind the centerpiece of this little operation - a converted semi, decked out like a parade float for the annual Things We Do Not Fuck With Bowl, armored down to the wheel wells and even the Helix rockets aren’t going to do much more than tickle if Jack can’t find a half-decent weak spot.

“Plans?”

“I need to get closer.” The agent says, with no hesitation. “Try not to be noticed. Get me as close as you can, and keep it steady.”

It’s not really a plan, but they’re already wasting time they don’t have, and Jack… trusts her. Of course she’s still trying to screw him, but at least in this - she really does care. It’s more than just duty and corporate pride, there are people to protect and with his help, she’s going to do it. Jack throttles the bike forward and down over the ridge, the speed just shy of bone-jarring on the uneven trail.

He has wondered, once or twice, about making that trip to the Outback, getting a glimpse of Junkertown with his own eyes. It was one of those places even Overwatch couldn’t justify the risk of sending a team to, not with the area so unquestionably hostile to outsiders and no actionable goal, nothing but rumors of rumors of rusted-out secrets. Now, though, Jack’s free to die in whatever way he feels like, and it certainly would be interesting just to see how far he could get.

The road dips into a low culvert on either side, and Jack tucks the bike there for the advance - line of sight with the rearguard without being seen. Whatever the agent plans on doing, Jack hopes it won’t take long - and even as he thinks it, her Omnic arm stretches out, and Jack sees tiny glimmers of blue flashing here and there from _inside_ the Bastion turret. A few moments later, there’s a rattle from the truck’s engine, and what looks like half the transmission suddenly dropping out onto the road.

Anything that’s put together can be taken apart - they used to put that on propaganda posters back during the Crisis, when the Omnic tide seemed unstoppable, and Jack’s thinking it would have gone even better if they’d had someone like her in the ranks back then. Shoving tiny bits of hard light into all the cracks, the joins, the engine block - why bother fighting power with power when there’s a thousand natural weaknesses in a turret’s moving parts?

Jack’s going to need to look into some records when this is all over, to see how many of Vishkar’s competitors have suffered unfortunate strings of industrial accidents. If any CEO’s or chief scientists ever ran themselves off the road over a cliff or into a lake or experienced some other subtle, fatal mechanical error. Sabotage like that, it wouldn’t leave a trace.

The first truck is down, but now everything else on the road is aware of their presence. Jack guns the engine, up out of the ditch a second before it’s engulfed in flames - two mercs, one with a lot of guns and one with a lot of fire, and long, red hair to match. The visor doesn’t pull up any names, and Jack doesn’t recognize them past the usual Junker head-on collision between second-rate punk band and overstocked hardware store.

Oh, and the fire. Did he mention the fire?

It’s classic Junker tech - home-brewed and inexpensive and destructive as all hell, launching what Jack can only think of as highly explosive water balloons onto the pavement, liquid fire spattering in wide arcs and if he’s not careful it’ll melt the tires right off the bike. The other merc is raining bullets down on them, and Jack has his sidearm out and doing his best to keep the man pushed back - because every moment the agent doesn’t have to keep the shields up, she’s launching more of those tiny bits of light at the truck. David flicking pebbles at Goliath, not a one-shot kill, but there’s more hits than misses piling up and Jack sees the sudden wobble, yanks the bike hard to the side as a good portion of the armor over the left fender suddenly falls apart and one of the back wheels bounces past. A single wheel won’t make much difference to a rig like that, but the agent’s just getting started.

Which is when Jack looks up, to see the truck out in front has noticed them and swung to the side as well - and even in all the mayhem and chaos, Jack swears he can still hear the slight electric whine, that very last click before the Bastion turret opens fire.

Jack slams on the brakes, reaches out with both hands to catch the edge of the truck and digs his legs in hard against the sides of the bike, arching back, letting the momentum carry him, the agent and the motorcycle briefly up into the air and over another patch of newly bubbling pavement. 

The agent doesn’t make a sound - she’s using the advantage of the moment’s worth of superior cover to work with both hands, drawing them together in a complicated set of motions and then apart in a sudden, snapping gesture and Jack has to let go of the rig, dropping back as more of it collapses in one go, the two mercenaries up top scrambling quickly toward the front as the rear of the roof begins to buckle and sway. Jack dodges the smaller pieces of debris while keeping close to the back, the Bastion turret letting out a short blast of fire now and then but unable to get an angle on them - until Jack hears the squeal of tires, and knows exactly what’s about to happen.

“They’re going to-“

“I know.” The agent says, and she hasn’t stopped moving, the blue light in a constant corona around her hands but Jack hasn’t seen much more in the way of damage, wonders if she’s run out of weaknesses to exploit. His visor catches the blur in what used to be his peripheral vision, the remaining truck braking hard and rushing past them, swinging into a hard J-turn that shouldn’t be possible at that speed and with that weight but it is - and now the turret’s pointed at them again.

“Now!” The agent yells, and Jack turns back to see the fortress on wheels _shiver_ , rattling all over from only a slight bump in the road and he realizes what she’s done. 

He could shoot - one Helix would probably be enough- but there’s a long piece of metal dancing on the end of its chain, hanging from the rear of the truck and instead Jack kicks it hard, down into the thorny morass that’s overgrown this section of the culvert. He guns the bike for everything it has to give, racing around the side of the rig, with the agent pouring everything she has into the next four seconds of shields as the Bastion turret lets loose. 

The metal bar digs into the undergrowth like an anchor, the speeding rig instantly snapping the chain taut. It ought to break, if not for the agent having loosened every screw and nail she could jam a bit of light into, turning the tractor-trailer into a pile of barely connected parts that tears itself neatly in half, a snake shedding its skin at eighty-five miles an hour. The cab wobbles and tips, metal screaming as it slides along its side, the two mercenaries who were on top of it now nowhere in sight. The back half tumbles, shedding pieces, and comes down on the truck and the turret in a roar of cascading metal.

Jack and the agent race away, and there is no pursuit.

It’s empty, closer to the dam - no reason to search for them there, everyone still out in the valley. Jack wouldn’t want to have to try and hold this position for long, but the alert in his heads-up says that’s not going to be a problem anyway. He parks the bike just inside a side garage the agent opens up for them, close to a set of maintenance tunnels and service rooms.

“I need to put you down for a minute.” He says, which isn’t really true but he’s counting on adrenaline and the option of various useful crutches to encourage the agent to distraction - and sure enough, she stays on her feet, using the railing and the wall for balance. Taking a deep breath, smiling back at him in what really could be an honest moment of shared victory, with a fierce and regal grin. Jack has to admit it, he’s had allies he hasn’t worked with half as well.

“Come with me. There are rooms ahead where we can fortify our position.”

She sounds convincing enough, when there must be some notification sounding off in her Omnic limb, alerting her to what Jack is just starting to hear over his own radio - the sounds of panic, and pain and gunfire. New voices, calm and commanding. No need to worry about the next wave of attack - Vishkar has arrived. 

Jack lets her take the lead. Makes sure to close a few doors behind them, knock a few heavier cabinets in the way so anyone who might have somehow followed them will run into Vishkar before they run into her. The agent’s safe now. The dam’s safe. Whatever the hell Jack thought he was doing here, it’s done.

So the next time she takes a few extra moments to get a door open, and turns to usher him in, Soldier 76 is gone. As if he had never been there at all.

After all is said and done and exploded, Jack ends up more or less where he started half a day ago, sneaking out much the way he’d intended to with a pile of papers that now, more than ever before, cannot possibly be worth the effort it took to collect them. 

_At least you know what a Vishkar agent looks like in action. I suggest you get used to it._

Jack moves quickly, carefully - stepping back into the shadows once or twice, as a freshly-pressed architech or one of their hired guns runs past. No need for them to be covert about this part, it’s criminal activity on their own property, they have every right to defend it. Who knows, it might even make the news, depending on how conclusively Vishkar can spin the victory. “Local crime syndicate powerless against the forces of progress and civilization!” 

Fuck, maybe she’s right. Maybe, despite themselves, Vishkar will actually make the world a better place. Jack’s been wrong before.

God, he’d love to be wrong.

He’s about a half-mile away and making decent time when he hears the twig snap from a side path - and Jack turns, rifle raised to find several already pointed back in his direction. It’s not Vishkar, but a motley collection of hand-built and carefully constructed bad ideas - the Junkers. Somehow they’ve pulling off a successful and subtle retreat from the battlefield, though they look a good deal worse for wear, bloodied and battered and maybe even low on ammunition. The only one of them who isn’t currently pointing a gun at him is barely conscious, both arms draped over the shoulders of his companions, an omnic limb sheared off mid-calf and letting off the occasional spark. 

Vishkar doesn’t seem to be looking too hard in this direction at the moment, but that will only last as long as there’s nothing for them to hear. Jack doesn’t move, sees a few quick glances cast in the direction of the tall, red-haired woman he’d seen before - the leader, he’s guessing. Up close, Jack can see that she’s older than he thought she was, not quite his age but getting there. She looks likes he wants to feed him to her team, a handful at a time, but that she also wants to be a hundred miles away and pretending this day never happened.

“I got paid to keep her alive until her friends showed up.” Jack lies, because the truth is idiotic. “I’m off the clock.”

Nothing personal, just business. No reason this has to escalate. A long pause, where everyone considers the benefits of shooting anyway, and then the woman nods, lowering her weapon as Jack backs off slowly in the opposite direction. Everyone watches each other, hands on their guns, until they’ve all disappeared from sight.

—————————————————

The sky might as well come from some entirely different world, this far out from even the ruins of civilization. Jack’s pretty sure the sunset gave up every color possible on its way down, and now the vast firmament is clear and brilliant, the stars like layers of glittering, gauzy scarves, pressed one on top of the next. He thinks about summer camp and crickets and long Midwestern nights - but even those skies were nothing like this.

The official rumor is, they’ve got a better than usual chance of being dead by this time tomorrow - the brass says fifty, Gabriel says more like sixty-five and he’s probably lowballing for the sake of morale. It’s going to be a big push on multiple fronts - two Omniums in one extended engagement. If they succeed they’ll be over the hump, more than half of the bastards offline. Overwatch has split in two once again, a mix of strategic advantage and confidence boost for the surrounding forces, with the hope of meeting up with Reinhardt and the rest of them somewhere in the middle for the second round. If things go as planned, maybe they all still die. If the bulk of the Omnics move off their expected path, they _definitely_ die.

Right now, though, Jack has Ana on his left and Gabe on his right and God’s own endless light show playing out overhead. Jack thinks he remembers reading some article somewhere, that he’s seeing light that left those stars when there were Caesars, or maybe pharaohs, or whatever they called them back in Babylon. The light that’s being made now, who knows if there will be a human being left to see it when it gets here. Maybe it’ll be an Omnic, or something else entirely, looking up.

The Crisis is doing its best to beat the religion out of him, one battle at a time, but it’s hard not to feel the scope of it all in moments like these - the world, the sky - and maybe the weight of something just as vast, gazing down on them in the same quiet contemplation.

“Hey, look,” he says, watching a point of light scratch a fingernail across the dark, “Meteors.”

“Jesus fuck, Walt Whitman,” Gabriel mutters, with affection, “go to sleep.”

Jack rolls partway on his side, but he can’t stop looking up. He needs to remember this. If he has to go, this is what he wants to keep with him for the end. The night and the sky, Gabriel’s steady breathing and Ana on his six and it’s enough. This is all he needs.

A few more lines of light glance off the sky - one pale blue, one pure white and blazing. 

“Hey, Ana.”

He wants to say something important, to tell her something true. Fumble through the words until enough of them at least point in the same direction. 

_I belong to you, Amari. Forever._

She probably already knows. Ana always knows everything before he says it.

A light kick, two taps of the toe of her boot against the back of his calf. “Sleep, Jack.”

He does.


	11. Chapter 11

Jack keeps Mondatta’s book in the digital pile, occasionally glancing through a few random pages just before the visor comes off at night. 

Shambali Omnics have some interesting views on the world, from what he can tell - and mostly what Jack can tell is that he needs to read up a lot more on his Buddhism if he wants any chance of understanding what they’ve built for themselves. He’s not entirely sure, but it seems like the Iris isn’t just a metaphor - at some level more of a plug-and-play digital enlightenment. Maybe a remnant of the old Omnium code, allowing for a kind of spiritual mass communion and _that’s_ certainly not terrifying, dredging up memories of all the bad, old times. It’s probably why they keep the details vague, focusing mostly on the Iris as a concept, a symbol, while talking up the practices that humans and machines can share. 

Is the show of nonviolence just an act, a way to trick humanity into disarming? The argument’s been made - although less often now that Mondatta’s gone and become a proper martyr. Of course, there are still those who say the Omnic’s just backed himself up somewhere, that it was all for show - but it’s not quite as easy as that, even for them. Jack was there - Genji’s anger and loss, those were very real.

What does Shimada feel, what does the Iris mean to him? Jack was never smart enough to really understand the details on just how Mercy rebuilt him, especially when it came to all the subtle neural connections. He should have been paying more attention, should have asked more questions - he can’t even remember for sure which chain of emergencies had kept him on the other side of the world for that initial rebuild-and-rehab, and by the time Jack returned - well, on those occasions that Genji did work with other operatives, they were usually Blackwatch, and Jack had always known where that line was. No playing with Gabe’s toys.

The Shambali suggest meditation as a path for self-reflection and enlightenment. 

Jack cleans his guns. 

Yeah, he’s pretty much destined to reincarnate as one of those amoebas on the rim of some undersea volcano. 

It quiets his thoughts, though, as much as it ever did - easy, methodical work. He lets himself focus, breathing slow, feeling the weight of each piece in his hands. Take care of the gear, and the gear takes care of you.

The pulse rifle’s a beautiful piece of machinery. At its best, connected to the visor and running at peak, it can manage all sorts of fancy tricks to keep him alive. But Jack’s always been a man of simple tastes, too many memories of extended tours and torrential rains and waist-high mud or ice or _both_ and weapons that still had to fire at the other end of it all. Technology is great when it works, but the pulse rifle can also take a beating, and he can afford to strip away a lot of parts before it stops working completely. The only thing Jack regrets about stealing it is that the research team responsible had invested too much in the prototype to survive the jump back to square one, all of them split off to develop new projects elsewhere. 

He would have loved the chance to swipe whatever they made next.

Jack’s restless enough tonight that, even with his hands busy, he’s still shuffling the open windows in his HUD like a deck of cards - the current full house a set of articles on what that Vishkar agent from the dam does when she bothers to have a name. Satya Vaswani. It didn’t take him long to find her. One of the company’s finest - and she must be one of their better agents too, since nobody out there seems to have caught on to her second job. So far, there’s been no mention of what happened in the news - and no mention of him even on the private channels, when Jack had half-expected Soldier 76 to take the blame for it all. 

Jack studies her corporate profile, the teams she’s led, the work she’s done when there’s not a bomb waiting at the end of it. He hardly has a trained eye, but from what he can see all her buildings are impressive, soaring structures - a string of grand ambitions and grander successes. The people who do understand what they’re looking at tend to agree, a long list of awards and recognitions descending down the page. Her projects keep to a simple, elegant style, impeccably crafted without ever quite being austere. Vishkar isn’t exactly keen on blending in with the surroundings, but Jack thinks her buildings seem less imposing than most, and he likes how the light falls on the inside of the spaces.

With any luck, they’ll never run into each other again.

The ping is soft, just as Jack starts putting the rifle back together - and then there’s a second, and a third, and he fumbles the piece in his hand, cursing as it hits the table.

Overwatch is back, and Overwatch has a website and a video and Jack’s visor is popping in bursts of lazy fireworks, as the first hits and retweets begin to populate and trend. It’s not like they could hide for long - this was never about hiding, not with a goddamn _recall_ \- so then, why not take the initiative? At least try to control the message.

Jack lets it play, feeling the tiny grooves on the front of the stock digging into his fingertips.

“Winston, are we on? We are? You sure?” A close-up - too close-up - on a blinking eye, a bit of yellow-gold visor. Pull the camera back to show off that ever-present grin. “Right, there we are. Surprise!”

It’s Tracer - who else would it be? - the disarming cheer, the carefully casual tone. Just playful enough to put people at ease, even though she’s still standing in front of the usual Overwatch backdrop, the one they slapped up for all the public announcements. It’s not quite deja vu, but still a feeling strong enough to make the world give a little from under him. A fun house mirror version of what had once been so familiar. It’s only been six years. Jack’s lost things in the back of the pantry for longer than that.

“So… I bet you’re wondering what all this is about?”

Jack drops his gaze back to his work, and wonders how many tries this casual greeting took them, how much work there was with the scripting - Lena never sounded fake, no matter how many times she had to redo a take or answer the same question in an interview. 

What this is all about - whether she’ll say it or not - is ignoring the PETRAS act, because fuck the PETRAS act. A pile of half-assed St. Georges killing a dragon that had already slain itself, before awarding themselves a goddamn victory lap. Burying Jack like a hero, and then doing _that_ the second the cameras were off. Looting the Watchpoints, watching the Ecopoints crumble.

But the UN isn’t as strong as it was six years ago, either. Overwatch may have fallen out of favor but it had still been a public face, a unifying force - and nothing that they’ve tried to put in its place has proven half as effective. _Why need Overwatch?_ has naturally evolved into _Why need the UN?_ and Jack should probably try harder not to take so much satisfaction in that.

Is this the banner they’ll try to unite under now? Is the threat of a reborn Overwatch, small as it is, enough to force a response?

Jack refuses to let himself start searching for the shortest route, the fastest flight to Gibraltar. The layout of the Hague. How to jailbreak a gorilla.

“You might have heard that I was there, when Tekhartha Mondatta died. That I tried to save him, and I failed.” Jack glances up, at the waver in her voice, that ever-present brightness dimmed. He wonders how many hundreds of times she’s run through the fight in her head since then, how many different ways she’s come up with to keep it from happening at all. Her hand comes up, touching the curve of the chronal accelerator. “We don’t get as many second chances as we want in life - not even me. So I’ve learned that when they do come around, you don’t hesitate.”

She lifts the Doomfist gauntlet - and because it’s Tracer, salutes the camera with it.

“I’m here to put paid to all the rumors - I was in Numbani, helping my good friend Winston keep this little blighter out of the wrong hands. An inaugural mission for the new Overwatch. For all of you out there who got the call - it’s true, we’re back. Come in if you can, if you want to. If you can’t… then be careful. Keep yourselves safe.” 

Somewhere, Gabe is watching this. Talon is watching this. Making plans. Jack’s been in the room at the UN where this will be added to the morning briefing, brought up somewhere between the coffee and the low-fat Greek yogurt - bullet points for an Overwatch operating completely on its own, in public, without even the suggestion of external oversight.

Who the fuck is funding them now? Even if they’re down to a skeleton crew at a single Watchpoint, and even after all that Winston had done to make Gibraltar self-sustaining - Jack knows the numbers. It’s not pocket change. No, there’s someone else driving this, someone with the capital to burn - and he doesn’t have to think real hard about who that might be, remembers Genji and his new contingent of Omnic friends. 

None of whom still exist, no matter how close he looks. No machines matching that kind of description, nothing at all that Jack can confirm. As far as he knows, the only reliable intel is what he saw on that beach himself.

“Overwatch is happy to talk with anyone who wants to start a conversation. About what to do with this thing, ” she wiggles the gauntlet again, “to keep it safe. About how we can help, and what happens next.” She bites slightly at her lower lip. “What we’re not going to do - what _I’m_ not going to do is walk away again. Six years ago… it seemed like Overwatch might be doing more harm than good. So we gave it up, we moved on - but the harm just kept on coming. If it’s our fault, if we’re still to blame - then it’s our responsibility to fix it. We can’t put that off on anyone else. This recall happened after a direct, unprovoked attack on a decommissioned Watchpoint, on my best mate. The fighting’s been going on all this time, in the shadows - and we’re going to drag it into the light.”

It all sounds reasonable enough. It’s also painting one hell of a target on their backs.

Is that it? Is that the _real_ point to all of this? Shimada stepping in, helping to resurrect Overwatch so they can play live decoy for whatever the hell else the Omnics have planned? The rage is all-consuming, and for a moment Jack’s blind for entirely different reasons.

_If you hurt my people, I will do things to you even God doesn’t have words for. I will make what your brother did look like the best day of your life._

Yes, Jack. That’s what sanity sounds like. Care to double or nothing for a rational response?

“Commander Morrison used to say that nobody fights alone.” Jack’s eyes snap open. “He said it was our job to make sure of that - and it still is.”

Oh fuck, no. Fuck no, Oxton, do not bring him into this. Don’t remind them he ever existed. It was supposed to be over. It was _over_ , and they were all safe and if not safe, then at least not dying under any banner of his, because Jack Morrison was ever stupid enough to stand up and say ‘hero’ and make anyone believe it.

_I was wrong, Lena. I was stupid and I was wrong, and this bullshit’s not worth your life._

There’s at least one little girl in Dorado who might not agree with him. Maybe she gets to be an astronaut or a sculptor or a grandmother, because Jack was there for the one moment that mattered. Maybe a couple of kids walked away from that museum, because Overwatch refused to play dead when it was supposed to. So Jack fucked it all up in the end, everything there was to fuck up. He also saved a lot of lives along the way. One doesn’t cancel out the other.

_The world’s full up on assholes, Morrison. Maybe try to be something else, if you can?_

Tracer’s standing tall now - shoulders back, chin up. The recruitment poster pose - Overwatch wants YOU to make impossible decisions for marginal gains!

“So, that’s what I’ve got to say. We’re back. We won’t go where we’re not wanted - but if you need us, we’ll be here.”

Tracer salutes. The video ends, the logo in the center of the screen gleaming gently on beveled edges. Jack wonders if he’s ever going to be able to see it again, without the mixture of pride and pain that feels like somebody’s etched it right on his heart.

His visor is putting out a fairly steady stream of chatter now, and he shuffles it into an archive, pulling apart ten thousand inane reactions for the global consensus and letting the feed go dark. The question of why he’s even bothering to notice, to pretend it matters if he can tell which way the wind is blowing - Jack could barely protect anyone before, little more than sheer, stupid luck that it all went down the way it did, that it wasn’t so much worse - and that was with half the fucking world at his disposal. 

What is he now? A half-blind old man with a stolen gun who couldn’t do his job the first time around.

A new message pops up. Now that Jack’s made the critical error of responding to his needling, Shimada’s blazed right past annoying e-mails, and tied him directly into an update channel, an internal, private feed. If he’s out of combat, it’ll flash to his HUD automatically. Jack could still ignore them - but things aren’t the way they were before, this is official Overwatch business now and there’s no point pretending he’s not already looking.

_CURRENT RESIDENTS OF WATCHPOINT GIBRALTAR:_

_OXTON, Lena_

_SHIMADA, Genji_

_SHIMADA, Hanzo_

_WILHELM, Reinhardt_

_WINSTON_

_ZENYATTA, Tekhartha_

Jack blinks.

_ZIEGLER, Angela_

Thankfully, it’s a pistol he’s holding instead of the rifle. So it’s no great loss, when Jack looks down to see that he’s gone and torn the gun in half. 

He takes a slow breath, opens both hands and lets the mangled metal drop to the floor. It’s good news, if he thinks about it - and Jack forces himself to stop and _think_ about it. Mercy’s a medic, widely respected and well-known and practically a non-combatant. At least it cuts down the odds of anyone trying to solve this problem under the table with a frontal assault or an accidental missile strike or God knows what else they might consider to make this just go away. It’s a good lineup - they’ve got the PR angle, if nothing else. Going public from the start could be a good way to play it.

Maybe it all stays small, this time. Maybe this really is the best way to circle the wagons against Talon, and have no one else able to sell Overwatch as a threat. 

_Maybe they die, Jack. Maybe this time they all die while you watch._

He grabs his spare sidearm and reaches for the rifle, glad he hadn’t bothered taking the body armor off. There’s no real goal as he steps out into the streets - this place was more of a stopover between better plans - but there’s never not trouble out there somewhere, never too late or too early to kick over something that would rather stay hidden - and he didn’t clean the guns for nothing.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"The main failing of the reign of Nicholas Pavlovich was that it was all a mistake." - A.V. Nikitenko_

It’s an easy enough line to draw, from Ana’s death to the end of Overwatch. A punch-up in a parking lot doesn’t take much embellishment.

Except that nobody writes about it, because nobody ever finds out. Despite all the people in attendance that day - either out of respect for Ana or fear of Gabriel or Jack or the both of them - no one talks. In a world where absolutely everything is recorded and replayed and picked apart _ad infinitum_ , this one slips through. Jack probably shouldn’t be as moved by that as he is, or as proud. Always the complaint, ever since the beginning, that Overwatch was too insular, too secretive. He can’t bring himself to regret it, even if it’s part of what brought them down in the end. Let the world think whatever it wants - Jack never fed any of his people to the wolves. 

Not that he’s worried now about the spectacle he’s making of himself. The damage to his reputation, Reyes’ reputation - all of Overwatch. How he’s breaking the earliest of rules, an SEP rule. One of those things they all figured out when they started snapping restraints by accident, when the doctors began giving each other nervous looks and a few more armed guards appeared in all the labs.

Never lose your shit out of uniform, off the battlefield. Never lose control, or let them think too hard about you losing control. What exactly ‘control’ means, when this is more or less what they always wanted, what they built him to do.

It’s a little like being an Omnic, if you think about it.

Jack’s not thinking about it. He’s not thinking about anything. It feels great.

The Overwatch parking lot is high-tech, of course, all hovercars from one end to the other. Lightweight materials, crumple zones and built for safety first - which means that when Gabe dodges and Jack puts his hand through the driver’s side window, the entire frame buckles around the blow. It’s safety glass, it’s nothing, but when Gabriel sends him face-first through the windshield a moment later, Jack does break his nose against the deploying airbag and yeah, that’s more like it. 

As he pulls himself free, Jack gets enough leverage on the car door to tear it from the hinges, turns and throws it and follows after, catching the other man low, the back of the truck they slam into splintering to pieces as Gabe gets him good in the kidneys - once, twice - and then Jack hits back, digs his fingers in as hard as he can into the nearest pressure point and twists, before head butting him for good measure. Splinters dig around the gaps in his armor, into his back as Gabriel drives him hard against what’s left of what they just finished wrecking and he’s bigger, but Jack’s faster, and it’s nice to see it still evens out after all this time. 

It’s nostalgic, really, beating the shit out of each other - it’s not like they used to hold back much in the old days, and this is just letting things tip across that last line. Of course, this should have all been over with before they'd gone through the window. It’s not like they’re both not armed - Jack only ever takes his gun off to sleep and shower and even then it’s within easy reach. But this isn’t about efficiency. This is punishment.

Which is why when Gabriel does finally pull a weapon, he goes for the knife instead. He’s good with knives - very good - but half of that is the threat of the blade and Jack can take anything he can give out. After a few false feints and dodges it’s definitely worth the pain of just moving into the path of the blow, letting Gabe bury that blade in his forearm because it leaves him disarmed and slightly off-balance, and Jack can use that momentum - open-palm strike to the ear, knee to the face - staggered back by a blow to the throat he didn’t see coming. A second or two where they’re both winded, the question of who recovers first, what the next move’s going to be - if Gabe manages to gouge his eyes out before Jack’s teeth find his windpipe.

As good a time as any, really, for Torbjörn to deploy the turret and just shoot them both. A lot. It’s a testament to their long and storied friendship, that he bothered to use the riot ammo instead of live rounds - but he doesn’t turn it off until the gun is clicking empty.

Jack’s knocked flat, listening to a car alarm serenade from all directions, the smell of coolant and leaking repulsor fluid and the familiar taste of blood. He doesn’t even realize he’s managed to get back on his feet until Winston’s hand is on his shoulder, as much holding him back as helping him up. His vision clears, and he can see a few feet away, where Reinhardt is doing his best to play living wall next to a scowling Torbjörn, and beyond them McCree’s standing close to Gabe, trying to talk him down. 

His uniform’s a lost cause, everything shredded in one direction or another and red-stained in the places it’s not. It feels like half his ribs are at least cracked, even with the body armor. It hurts to turn his neck more than a few degrees in either direction, and he might have dislocated a few fingers. But he damn sure gave as good as he got - Gabriel is limping, favoring his left leg, and though the black clothes don’t show much blood there’s still a decent amount dripping on the ground beneath him. Jack yanks the knife out of his arm, lets it clatter to the ground as Gabriel spits a decent stream of red onto the pavement before glaring back at him and Jack doesn’t hear all of what gets growled out, just the highlights - “Ana” and “gone” and “not man enough to pull the trigger himself.”

Jack lunges for him, and hears Winston grunt with the impact, the effort to hold him back.

“Get him out of here. Now.” Torbjörn snaps at McCree, who puts a careful hand on Gabriel’s arm - the other man shrugs him off, but turns and walks away. Jack watches the line of tension and fury in Gabriel’s shoulders, the place where McCree reaches up, puts his hand again and some part of him thinks, distantly - _that used to be me._

“Get in the car, Jack.” Torbjörn says, pointing to the far end of the lot, the place where the cars are still the right way up and not sparking.

Jack doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to calm down, to feel what’s still waiting on the other side. He’s beginning to pick out more details from the chaos around them, and not just his injuries letting themselves be known - but how many cars they’ve wrecked, how many people are watching through what’s left of the window he smashed. A whole lot of spectators, many of whom have never seen Strike Commander Jack Morrison (TM) on a battlefield, let alone like this - and all he can see is shock and confusion and a lot of wary fear. Lena Oxton is right there, front and center, as if she’d been ready to intervene - staring at him now like he’s transformed, like he’s ripped off all his skin and what’s underneath is nothing she recognizes.

Fucking _stupid_ , Jack. What kind of an idiot… Ana’s going to kick _both_ their asses for-

Oh. Right.

“Get. In. The. Car. Jack.”

It’s not like he has any better ideas.

—————————————

The road is mostly empty. The engine barely makes a sound, and Torbjörn doesn’t turn the radio on. Jack stares out the window, and doesn’t really wonder where they’re going, and vaguely hopes he’s not bleeding on anything that won’t wash out. As far as he knows, they’re not going to stop until they hit ocean. Maybe he’ll just boot Jack out at the edge of the world and let him find his own way back. 

“You know, I’ve probably killed more people than any man alive.” Torbjörn says, never taking his eyes off the road. “More than you or Reyes, more than Overwatch and Blackwatch combined. More than most _wars_.”

Torbjörn isn’t a man who talks about the past, or about regrets. He’s been as committed as anyone could be, both during the Crisis and afterward, to putting his skills to their best use, to helping as many people as he can. He’s a weapons designer, and no, that’s not like selling ice cream - but Jack knows him as a man of reason and ethics and caution and this is all news to him, that Torbjörn holds himself responsible for any more than the rest of them, that it’s somehow his fault that his line of work is a seller’s market.

“No one thinks that.”

It’s stupid enough to earn him a raised eyebrow. As long as Jack’s known him, Torbjörn has never given a single, frozen shit what anyone else thinks.

“I need to quit.”

Not retire, not forced out like Reinhardt. There’s a difference. Or maybe not, after today. Maybe Reinhardt won’t even look back, or bother telling any more stories about the good old days. 

Jack stares out the window again. The sun’s disappeared behind new clouds, the whole world in varying shades of monochrome… and this is it, isn’t it? From this point on, he can be absolutely certain that all his best days are in the past. Absently, he digs his fingers hard into a place that’s just starting to think about healing. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I understand.”

“You need to quit.”

Jack thinks he can see water, way off in the distance. A bay, maybe. It’s raining there. He wonders if the rain is moving this way. Torbjörn sighs, a gentler sound, and Jack considers opening the door and just jumping for it. It wouldn’t kill him. He’s done it before. 

The scenery passes by, mountains and rivers that will keep on being mountains and rivers no matter what the rest of them do. Jack checks his phone because it’s habit, because there might be an emergency somewhere - and there is. It’s him. A notification from the Watchpoint they just left, to use the back door for safety concerns, until further notice. Until they can clean up the front lot. 

Jack will have to issue some sort of formal apology, later. Or maybe they’ll forgive him this one, because of the circumstances. Of course, Gabriel won’t have to apologize to anyone, and Jack feels a sudden, childish sting of jealousy at the thought. 

Torbjörn doesn’t ever feel the need to fill in the silences. Maybe that’s the reason they’ve gotten along so well over the years - although given how little they talk, would he even know if they didn’t? Jack thinks he has some Scandinavian blood in him somewhere, if you go back far enough. Maybe that’s where the quiet comes from.

“She should have outlived us all.” Torbjörn finally says. “I always thought she’d be there, telling all the wrong stories at my wake.” 

“We always figured you’d just booby trap your coffin.” 

Fun fact: Jack has no idea what his life expectancy actually is. The SEP didn’t bother calculating out past about a twenty-year estimate, and everything over ten could barely be considered speculation - how could they know? As far as Jack’s aware, any day now some internal equilibrium will finally tip and he’ll just collapse into a pile of parts, or spontaneously combust. The spiteful part of him kind of hopes it happens on camera.

“Was he right? Gabriel?” Torbjörn says, quietly. “Could they have… is Ana…?”

Screaming, alone in the dark? Jack balls his hands into careful fists - anything he touches now, he’s going to break.

“I won’t stop looking, not until we find… I won’t stop.”

Torbjörn is merciful enough to let that pass without comment, to pretend either one of them is holding out hope. The window is cool where he rests his head against it, and time passes and Jack’s surprised when it’s his own voice, breaking the silence.

“What have you heard, exactly?” 

“Nothing new.” Torbjörn says. “Enough. I know how this works, Jack. When they’re looking for easy answers, when they just want someone to blame. It will only get worse from here.”

History’s a pendulum, and that pendulum swings. It’s nothing personal. Jack’s seen three US presidents go by, closing in on a fourth. God only knows how many heads of state and prime ministers. He’s watched entire countries turn themselves inside out and backwards - this is the way it is, the way it’s always been.

It swings one way, and the world seems full of possibility. Crisis averted, world saved, and what rises up in the aftermath is strong in all sorts of unexpected ways - technological advancements that seem to improve everyone’s quality of life. Stumbling countries righting themselves, environmental policies finding their legs, fragile peace treaties growing stronger roots. Omnics granted the rights of sentient species, after endless debate from every possible angle - legal, religious, philosophical. Debates that are still raging, and the laws - entirely new legal codes, to define what an Omnic is and what that means and it’s still not perfect - far from - but it’s a start. Of what, exactly, nobody’s sure. Numbani declares it’s intentions - a city for all - and the monks in the mountains politely stake their claim and somehow nobody dies for it. 

They sell little garlands of paper prayer flags, cut with circuit board patterns, as souvenirs near the front gates. Jack has a strand hanging in a corner of his Swiss office.

It swings the other way, inevitably - and suddenly there’s laws against Omnics owning property, having jobs, ‘cohabiting’ with humans. A few nations go so far as to ban Omnics entirely - even Omnic limbs, and how can they not at least be past _that_ by now? Hurting people, hurting themselves for no logical reason whatsoever. Borders shutting down, people withdrawing from alliances, suspicious of everything. Federally mandated tribalism, and fear, and hate - two steps forward, one back. The laws they pass for the people aren’t any more rational. It’s like the whole world just decided the best way to survive was to shut the door in each other’s faces. As if everything they’d learned about teamwork during the Crisis never happened - and Overwatch is a symbol of a world that nobody wants anymore.

In his more realistic moments, Jack thinks that all ‘success’ really means is getting lucky enough to retire on the upswing, to die at least pretending that all that trying had left a mark.

He’s lived too long to get that chance. A matter of bad timing - no false victories for Jack Morrison. The last sweep of elections has all but created a perfect storm of people that Jack has never done any favors for, and most of his own allies are retired or dead, with anyone who even remembers the Crisis getting older by the day, the way that Jack’s getting older. Overwatch is out of touch, and none of the people still on their side are going to risk themselves on his behalf.

Corruption mostly matters when it’s in someone’s best interest for it to matter. Ethics are a wonderful thing to wave around when it’s time for a re-election bid.

If only it were easy. If only Blackwatch were always wrong. If only getting rid of Overwatch would make all the problems go away. Would it? Is he too close, can he just not see it? Maybe all his critics have been right from the start. Is Jack Morrison just too damn stubborn to take his life’s work out back behind the woodshed and be done with it?

He’s not afraid of the hard choices, never has been - it’s supposed to be the entire _point_ of him, underneath the camera-friendly shine. He’s supposed To Do What’s Right. Which means Jack doesn’t get to be exempt from those rules, even if it hurts. But there’s still work for Overwatch to do, and they can still do it. No one else can, they don't have the reaction time or the array of talents or the experience and it still matters, it _does_.

The suggestion’s been on the table for a while now - if he goes quietly, they’ll let it happen. Jack gets the gold watch and the cushy consulting gig of his choice, and every hostile implication evaporates as if they’d never been, because ‘beloved retired war hero’ casts a glow that everyone can warm their hands around.

Ana’s gone. Gabriel would be happy to see him in the ground. Liao and Reinhardt and now Torbjörn… Jack’s the last man standing.

“What are you going to do?” Torbjörn says.

Fuck it. If they want Overwatch so damn bad, they’re going to have to pry it from him, piece by piece. Jack’s not obligated to make this easy, or tasteful, or clean. He watches the first few drops of rain hit the glass, dragged into long, thin lines by the speed of the car, and then the whole world blurs under the rain, an impressionist painter who’s run out of any color worth looking at.

“My job.”

—————————————

The Morrisons were farmers and the sons of farmers, all the way back to the first one off the boat, maybe back to the first time there were farmers. It was his mother’s side of the family where things got interesting - a generation or two back and it was all drunks and con men and suspicious deaths, women of ill repute and unknown origins. Jack knows of one particular relation, an old great-great-great who’d made the mistake of striking it rich and investing it all just as the Dust Bowl had swept into town. It sounds a lot like the Crisis when he reads about it - you really had to be there, to understand how bad it could get. How there’d been no better tomorrow, no matter how long so many of them had waited. A whole world dried up and drifted away, and that man had buried a wife and three children in what was left of his ground before sending the one who’d survived so far away that they’d never meet again. 

Jack had found a little more information over the years - some reporter doing a genealogy study on him, background for a profile piece that never ended up getting published, but Jack got to keep all the research and that had been worth the time. Looking over careful scans of scribbled-out sermons that had somehow been salvaged - the man had become a wandering preacher, working tent revivals across the plains with a gospel of apocalypse and ruin and the inevitable fall of all men. The book of Job and ‘behold dread Leviathan’ and a God who was - if not vengeful - then so terrifyingly inscrutable it was almost worse. 

Old McOzymandias had a farm.

On the fourteenth day of the worst day of his life, they sic the shrink on him. Jack knows it’s coming, and he knows from where because it’s not one of Mercy’s colleagues, the one she’s been pushing him to see. Grief counseling, a standard screening, because his superiors care so very much. He goes immediately, because putting it off will make it look like he’s putting it off. The therapist looks maybe about half his age, if that, and Jack tries hard not to hate him on sight. He digs up a smile they’d given him for a photo shoot once upon a time, puts a bit of rueful sadness in it, a touch of soldiering-on-through-adversity and Jack lies and lies and lies.

“I’m not going to say it hasn’t been difficult, but I’m taking it a day at a time.”

_I’d let Gabe stab me again, if we could talk about Ana for five minutes first._

“I’ve lost close friends in combat before. It’s a risk we all take.”

_I can’t remember the last thing she said to me. Athena didn’t record it. I’ll never know. I can’t ever get it back._

“Routines are important, I know that. Making healthy choices, getting enough exercise.”

_If I were my CO, there’s no way in hell I’d let me walk around armed._

In the end, the shrink is still just a kid, and Jack was trained how to bullshit by professionals, and after they both pretend to have an open and meaningful conversation, he’s cleared for duty. Jack leaves, that day, for a border that’s broken down somewhere hot and dry and blissfully hostile, where he gets shot at repeatedly and no one cares about him or his problems at all.

 _The best way to avoid PTSD,_ Gabriel laughs, from some far-off time when they were all immortal, _is not to bother with the fucking P._

Blackwatch is tearing a bloody path of vengeance through several countries, killing anyone with anything resembling Talon ties, and more than a few things that happen to be in the way. It’s payback - it’s not good or right or lawful and Jack makes zero attempt to rein it in. Hell, half the time he wishes he could be out there with them. He’s still looking. There’s still nothing. Jack tries not to think about it while bracing himself for the news of some new mystery sniper out there, taking impossible shots at all of Ana’s best angles.

McCree represents Blackwatch now, whenever they bother being represented, which isn’t often. He gives Jack a fair distance in any room they find themselves in, and Jack wonders if that taciturn, wary nature is even real, or if McCree is just playing his advantage, letting Jack believe he’s some sort of lesser threat - and is it really overthinking if he’s sure there are pieces being slotted into place somewhere out there, a game being played that he can’t see? Is it really paranoia, if Gabriel Reyes has his hand in?

_Be nice, Jack._

Jesse McCree, whatever else he might be, is one of the few pieces of Ana left in this world. Her legacy. Fareeha’s not exactly talking to Jack, because he’s not exactly talking to her, because Ana’s death didn’t change anything about her daughter not getting into Overwatch. Jack’s loyalty is still - will always be - with Ana’s memory and Ana’s wishes, which is why Fareeha hung up on him during their last, short conversation. If she were anyone else, she would have been recruited before she’d even had to ask - hell, there’s a good chance Fareeha would have become Jack’s pick, to succeed him as Strike Commander. But that’s a whole different world, a what-if-never-happened-never-will. Jack wouldn’t put Fareeha in the middle of this now if they held a gun to his head.

As if that’s much of a threat. The weight of his own weapon is a constant now, heavy in a way it never was before. A quiet reminder - this can all end, any time he wants it to. It would be easy. It’s a strange thought, the first time it comes, a simple observation of fact. Jack isn’t that person, never has been - he’s usually the person telling that person where they can go, to talk to someone, to get help. He really has no business being armed. 

He won’t do anything - it would be too satisfying for all the wrong people, the ending they’d like best, since Jack is too boring for a good sex scandal. He knows who would have to come clean up the mess, and they don’t deserve that, and Mercy would just find some way to bring him back anyway, if only to show her disappointment via the pointy end of the Caduceus.

The thought still lingers, patiently, always waiting for him in the quieter moments. So Jack does his best to make sure there aren’t any. 

It’s easiest when he’s out in the field, when he can lose himself in the moment-by-moment of helping other people, in the familiar demands of bringing order to chaos. He’s not the only one suffering, not the only one who’s lost, and they don’t even need him to care as long as he fixes the problem. What matters is that they’re getting clean water and medicine and steady supply lines and someone to protect what needs to be protected. Maybe his life is fucked, but Jack can still give someone else the chance to figure it out, to be happy, and that’s enough. 

It’s a little harder to get through the day when he’s not in an active combat zone, although looking functional is a simple checklist that makes actually _being_ functional superfluous. Jack cleans up well without too much work. Maybe that really was the reason they gave him the job - all the dents pop right out.

 _Next time_ , Gabe says, from half a memory, _we’ll just buy a whole crate of Morrisons and save on shipping._

A perpetual white-glove standard, then, and so every morning Jack goes to the mirror and buttons the buttons and sharpens the creases until what he sees in the mirror looks like the thing on the poster. It has the added benefit of being a decent time-suck - eight minutes here, three minutes there. Now there’s just that matter of the other twenty-three-and-a-half hours to fill. 

He dreams about the silo again, after so many years, with all the old childhood memories as crisp and clear as yesterday - dragged down into the dark, drowning on dry land. It’s bad, nearly as bad as was during the SEP days, when his life was equal parts dream and hallucination, when he’d spent an interminable limbo too sick to move, or working a farm full of barren fields and dead animals.

Jack dreams the dreams he used to have during the worst of the Crisis. The middle of a firefight, the whole world screaming all around him and he can’t find his team. Everything’s unsteady, threatening to give way beneath his feet as explosions wrack the sky and he doesn’t care, too busy listening to the rest of Overwatch go down, one-by-one, and no matter where he goes and whatever high ground he scrambles to, Jack can’t see anything in the dust and smoke and he can’t find them - _“Liao, report! Reinhardt, give me a position, goddamn it!”_ He can’t save them, he can’t even die with them. _“Ana!? Gabe!? Gabe, tell me where you are!”_

He wakes up soaked in sweat, feeling like he’s just scaled a thousand-foot cliff with his fingertips.

“Commander Morrison?” Athena is probably watching his life slowly fall apart from three different angles, and in infrared. “Are you all right?”

“Morning, Athena.” Jack says, dragging a hand across his face. “Tell me something new?”

It’s one of the better perks of the job, this little game they play. Athena shuffling through all her collected knowledge of the world for whatever’s new or strange in the world, some scientific discovery or interesting historical fact. Over the years, Jack’s learned about quarks and red giant stars and the odd properties of molten glass in water, the migrating habits of humpback whales and Emily Dickinson’s extended family and the sex lives of animals he didn’t even know had sex lives. Snails. Wow.

He gets up, and faces the day - and the next, and the next. Jack goes to sleep, and dreams, and snaps awake again, ready to shout orders for a battle that’s a decade over, to people who aren’t there. He thinks of Torbjörn working on one of his machines, imagines taking a socket wrench to his own chest and cranking hard, forcing everything inside back into alignment.

It’s five-forty-five. It’s three a.m. Two-thirty.

 _“How are you sleeping?"_ The therapist asks. _“A little insomnia, some nights.”_ Jack shrugs. _"I try not to drink caffeine after lunch._ ”

He wishes he had a bad habit, something distracting he could kill some time worrying over. Heroin, maybe. That would have been a good idea. It seems like too much trouble to bother starting now.

Reinhardt sends his messages like clockwork. A standing invitation for him to visit, anytime he wants, for as long as he wants. A vacation in the mountains. It’s beautiful this time of year, Jack. Fishing. Hunting. All the _Wunder der Natur_. 

Jack sits in his office, and stares at his hands.

It’s the thirty-second day of the worst day of his life. One of Overwatch’s last staunch allies in the EU is defeated by a slim margin, replaced with a man who, among other things, ‘doesn’t believe in AI,’ whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean. In the US, Overwatch has not been invited to provide any insight in a series of key meetings on international security. The hard-core conspiracy theorists say that Blackwatch is nothing compared to what’s really going on - that Overwatch and _Talon_ are the same thing, one justifying its existence through the other, which may not exist at all. Which is beyond the realm of nonsense - but it all taps into the same core, the less-lunatic opinions of the mainstream. Overwatch isn’t trustworthy. Talon is a phantom threat. Jack Morrison’s long past his prime, if he was ever anything special to begin with.

 _“You ever want to know how much someone really respects you?”_ Gabriel said once, with that bitter half-smile that had quickly become his favorite expression. Expecting nothing from the world and so rarely disappointed. _“Tell them no, and watch what happens.”_

Oh, these people want him gone. They’re fishing, Jack can feel it, the head of the UN committee reminding him of a sour-faced bastard who’d been in charge of a similar subcommittee a decade ago - same agenda, same scowl. All the same talk with slightly different details. Reminding Jack that it would be easier to defend Overwatch if it kept a more conservative profile. Maybe not be quite so protective of the junior- _yakuza_ -turned-living-weapon in their midst. Or the genetically altered gorilla from the moon. Or the Overwatch AI, the only Omnium not currently offline or ‘rendered exanimate’ because right up until Mondatta, years after all of this, the official terminology was never that an Omnic had been ‘killed’.

They go after Jack for things he did six months ago and twelve months ago and fifteen years ago, for mistakes he made and good decisions at the time that turned into bad decisions in retrospect and the contractors who failed and the subcontractors who lied and everything it takes to make a global organization do anything much at all. Months and years of work and careful planning that could all be binned at the last minute by bickering internal politics, by a regime change, by changing demands that have nothing to do with Overwatch.

If they’d let him take the hit, if they made this all about Jack and let the rest of it continue on, he might just take that deal - but that’s not what they want.

They even go after Ana, bringing up records so old they might as well have digital cobwebs, along with newer accusations she’s not there to defend herself against, just to see if he’ll bite. Edging right up against accusations of negligence and incompetence, that he’s the reason she’s MIA, presumed KIA - just to see if Jack will give them an angry tirade to use against him. Despite popular opinion, he’s not quite that dumb. Ana would never forgive him for trying to defend her honor, and Jack doesn’t take the bait.

Somewhere, in the middle of all of this, Ecopoint Antarctica asks to extend their tour. The weather’s been strange all over, more unpredictable than normal, and funding… well, there’s just a bigger risk than there used to be, with less reward, and no one would be blamed for packing up and coming home early - but they still ask to stay. The work they’re doing matters _because_ the situation is dangerous and unpredictable. It’s important for the world. Jack’s not even the one to make that call - it’s just a memo that passes across his desk one day. 

He’ll still regret it. Not paying more attention, even if it wouldn’t have changed a thing.


	13. Chapter 13

“Hey, Commander!”

“Oxton?”

Later, Jack will wonder if it really was a coincidence, if Tracer just happened to be going out for a jog just as he was leaving one of the training rooms. What happened in the parking lot has managed to fade into the distant background. The kind of thing that’s better off if it never happened, although Jack’s been ducking every attempt that Mercy’s made to talk to him since, and even here with Oxton, Jack thinks there’s a wary edge to her usual friendliness, an awkwardness they’re both going to pretend isn’t there.

“Out for a run, agent?”

“Good day for it, sir.” Tracer nods, and pauses. Rocks back and forth a little on her heels. Always an object in motion. “You, ah… maybe want to come with? It’ll be right quick.”

He really shouldn’t. He has work to do, and Oxton’s only being polite, a thousand things she’d probably rather do than hang out with her commanding officer. Except Jack’s still in his workout clothes, and the door’s right there, and the only thing waiting for him is a desk he doesn’t want to sit down behind and a day like a wall he’ll have to chip through, one minute at a time.

“Lead the way”

She saves his life then, little Lena Oxton. Jack never tells her how much it means, how much hope she gives him, just by existing. Giving him an hour or so in the mornings to count on, no matter how bad the rest of the day is going to go. In a world that’s been draining tone and color for him, she’s still just living her life, with an easy knack for it that Jack’s forgotten. It feels like he’s the one who’s been displaced - out of time and with no idea how to get back, but around her, everything comes back into focus, sharper and clearer for a while, until he almost feels normal again. 

He ran track in high school, with a decent number of trophies to show for it, even a record-holding time for a couple of years. Jack had always loved to move and run, long before he ever signed up for the service or heard of the SEP. Tracer pushes it all to to an entirely new level, when she realizes he has little problem keeping up with her even when she’s skipping out of sight, using that power to leap her way up the sides of buildings, dancing across all the narrow spaces and Jack follows along and occasionally even pulls into the lead, making his own path at her speed.

A bit of a race, then - the super soldier and time traveler _parkour_ extravaganza - daring each other to go that one jump higher, to reach further and move faster and there’s a wonderful rhythm to it. A silent understanding that eventually has Jack jumping between buildings seven stories off the ground, while Tracer flickers back into existence right in the middle, just long enough to catch him, like a trapeze artist mid-flight, making sure he reaches the other side.

Afterward, they stop for coffee, and Jack is happy to sit in the of morning sun and listen to Tracer tell him about her off hours, the latest concert she went to. A girl she bumped into during the show, cute freckles and a shy smile. Didn’t seem to mind the chronal accelerator. Planning to meet up for a movie, the weekend after next. A normal life, or as close as they get.

“You ever tried to skip down the side of a building?” Jack says, studying the nearest skyscraper.

“ _Have_ I.” Tracer scoffs, as if it were the very first thing she’d tested out and who knows, it probably was. She pauses, considers. “Never thought to try it with two, though. Bit starkers, really.”

Except she’s grinning, and Jack nods, and then they’re taking a little detour on the way back to the Watchpoint.

_“Cor blimey, it works!” Tracer says, the note of surprise only slightly unnerving as she drops him three and four floors at a time._

—————————————

It’s day forty-seven when Jack wakes up tense, an ominous feeling of dread with nothing specific to attach it to. Intuition is the best weapon he has, it’s kept him alive countless times, habit noticing something the rest of him hasn’t picked up on yet. There’s a lot he’s probably not picking up on right now, and the fact that he’s stuck in another meeting, and not out in the field where the danger ought to be makes it all a thousand times worse.

There’s levels of meeting, of course. At the surface, Jack at least has a team with him, with Overwatch’s own lawyers ready if necessary, to clarify and check all the proper appendices and split the legal hairs. This is the stuff that the Jack Morrison on the poster never has to deal with, taking care of all the paperwork attached to the interesting part of the job. The bulk of his time as Strike Commander, really - a life lived in b-roll.

Underneath those meetings are the confidential briefings, and then the even more confidential briefings, lieutenants and vice-secretaries peeled off left and right until it’s just Jack alone, sitting in a windowless room in front of small panel of unhappy people under unflattering lighting. This is what it looks like when things are very serious.

It fucking sucks, fighting Talon. It always has and it always will and Jack refuses to be more eloquent about it than that. But they’re evil, and it’s not really a surprise that they’re monsters and Jack doesn’t expect otherwise.

It hurts more, to be in this room now. Defending himself against people he swore to protect, against people he’d bled for and taken bullets for and fought so that they didn’t have to and Jack tries very hard not to put that line down, soldiers on one side and civilians on the other because not everyone makes a difference with a gun and they shouldn’t have to. It’s not how things should be - it doesn’t work. Whatever they think he’s doing this for, Jack still believes in a strong government, in republic and democracy and civilization. He’s seen the alternative more times than he’s ever wanted to - warlords, criminals, plutocracies so corrupt they belonged in the Dark Ages. The rule of the powerful - there always has to be someone in charge, and if it isn’t an agreement among the people then it’s the person with the most guns. Systems don’t smash into better systems - they devolve, which is no good for anyone, especially the people at the bottom.

Which doesn’t mean he always has to be impressed with the alternative. 

“How would you define your relationship with the Overwatch AI?” 

The Strike Commander has control of many things, but not everything, and quite a bit of that ‘not everything’ has to do with Athena. Jack can’t rid her of her override codes, even if he’d wanted to. Overwatch has to apply for review every time they want to extend her reach to a new Watchpoint and there is an entire phonebook’s worth of restrictions that were hard coded into her at inception to ensure she wouldn’t be able to ‘go Crisis’ on them. Monitors and firewalls, permanent safeties and Winston grumbling every time it takes him months for the authority to change a few lines of her code. A miracle that they’d ever been able to keep her in the first place - one of those golden moments of sanity, all the right people in all the right places and Jack remembers that he’d been hesitant, even resistant at the thought of bringing an AI on board - and what a terrible mistake that would have been, for all the right reasons.

Jack quickly lists off the last five missions she played a key role in - even those against rogue Omnics, all of it done under UN jurisdiction. Everything they already know.

“So, it interacts with more than just the senior staff?”

A fact they also already know. As if Athena isn’t happy to greet the majority of the guided tours herself, in the few Watchpoints with areas open to civilians. Jack says as much. He reminds them that even he was doubtful at the start, suspicious - but Athena’s never given him any reason to question her loyalty. Jack remembers reading over the history of the McCarthy trials, how at first he couldn’t imagine that many people had been involved, that it could have been so bad.

“A fully self-adaptive AI, with direct access to all of Overwatch’s key systems?”

The pendulum swings. Yesterday’s normal is today’s growing threat, and somehow it’s never been otherwise - Oceania always at war with Eurasia. If Athena wanted to kill them all, she probably could have figured it out years ago. 

_If I wanted to kill everyone in this room, they couldn’t stop me._ Jack thinks, and wonders if Gabe has had that exact thought, sitting in this chair. Only one of them in this room, at least on his side of the table - it’s Overwatch or Blackwatch here, never both at once. He wonders what Gabriel has to say to them, what they’re interested in knowing, where no one else can hear. 

“After reviewing the information on file, it seems clear that the internal security measures no longer match the evolving capabilities of what is, let us be clear, an Omnium-level intelligence, with global surveillance abilities. Would you even know, Commander, if the AI took it upon itself to gather information of its own accord? Might it be possible for it to hide altered functions from base-level audits?”

He knows exactly what Athena’s hiding from the audits - or more specifically, what Winston and Athena try to keep quiet about - covert side projects with the scientist's underfunded academic colleagues, everything from giving Athena a backdoor into the NRAO Very Large Array to helping crunch the numbers on an infrastructure study of the Bowash-PAM economic corridor, to the tiny sliver of her database set up for their next game of _Settlers of Catan_. Unless they’d already moved on to something three times as large with five times as many rules.

“Athena is hard-coded for honesty, as I’m sure you’re aware. Even if that were not the case, I don’t think she would have any reason to lie to-“

“Can you be certain, Commander? One-hundred percent?”

“Respectfully, sir,” Jack says stiffly, “the only people I’m one-hundred percent sure of are the ones we put behind bars or in the ground. With everyone else, there has to be a certain measure of trust.”

Present company included. He could have tried to make that a little less obvious.

“We’re speaking of AI here, Commander, not human beings. Given the current political situation, we have reason to believe Overwatch might benefit from the presence of an… outside perspective.”

Ah, there it is. The toy surprise at the bottom of the conversation box.

“Did you have anyone in mind, sir?”

Who put in the highest bid, to get the UN’s attention? It’s not that Athena’s systems are completely off-limits, but over the years Jack has been perfectly happy to limit access to the researchers Winston approves of, and that Athena herself likes. Who’s out there now, and what do they think she can do for them?

“We will convene a panel of experts, to decide on the precise course of action. Regarding the Omnic issue, we need to make our commitment to security, cooperation _and_ humanity’s best interests clear. I understand there are certain programs that place predetermined limitations on specific AI processes…”

Jack’s familiar with the concept from the Crisis days - viruses and reprogramming subroutines that can incapacitate an AI without permanent damage. Theoretically. The sort of thing they’d hand out when the brass wanted another machine to study - but even then, Jack had never considered using it on anything that hadn’t been trying to kill him first. Athena would never forgive him. Jack would never forgive himself. 

“You want to lobotomize my AI.”

“Mild restrictions. Far more refined than the programs you’re used to using.” So, only _mild_ dementia, then. “Certainly you of all people must appreciate the need for caution.”

 _You were a child._ Jack thinks. _Half of you were children, when I was risking my life so that you could grow up one day and decide that I didn’t matter anymore._

He knows exactly the look that Winston’s going to give him, when he finds out about this. The ‘I-used-to-look-down-on-Earth-and-dream-big-dreams’ look, the ‘I-watched-the-wisest-and-kindest-man-I-knew-slaughtered-by-stupidity-and-ignorance’ look. A mix of hope and determination and quiet disappointment, because whatever he thought he’d find when he landed, humanity really hasn’t lived up to the hype.

“I think this line of reasoning is a mistake.” Jack says. “I believe it will undermine our position with the Omnics in the future. I would provisionally approve programs that allow for a more comprehensive look into Athena’s systems when necessary, but as we rely on her power and ability in order to do the work we do, we’d only be hurting ourselves by limiting it.”

 _She’s one of us._ Jack thinks. _She’s one of us and fuck you._

“Thank you for your insight on this issue, Commander. We will keep you informed as we consider the path forward. Continuing on, there’s an issue we’d like to discuss concerning a case in Hanamura, about eighteen months ago….”

————————

He’s still tense, even hours after the absurdly long meeting, shuffling through the pile of work that has stacked up, even in his short absence. Jack could have mentioned that Athena is also the closest thing he’s actually had to an admin in a very long time, that it’s just easier to let her take care of scheduling appointments and arranging meetings and most everything that isn’t specifically classified past her clearance. Jack’s pretty sure that wouldn’t help her case, and only make him look less trustworthy. He’s more than a little surprised they haven’t pulled any of the surveillance tapes yet, or his bioscans, citing some vague excuse or another. Jack’s not looking forward to that day, but there’s nothing much he can do about it.

“Good evening, Commander.” Athena says, the moment he’s out in the world again.

“Good evening, Athena.”

He’ll demand that she be given the chance to speak, to defend herself. If that doesn’t work… but he can’t jump the gun either. Jack can’t trust that it isn’t just another ploy, to see if he’ll overreact and give them the opening they really want. Winston would certainly do something irreparable, to keep Athena in one piece.

It’s late again - it always feels late these days, like Jack is always walking down the same hallways and never quite ending up anywhere.

It’s not so much that he thinks about Ana all the time, but that it doesn’t matter what he’s thinking about - a part of him is always aware that she’s gone, the empty place at his side where she ought to be. If she was here, she’d have all kinds of things to say about what was going on, and how foolish he was, and what he ought to do. She’d have talked to Gabe - or she’d have been the one to shoot them both, instead. The whole thing would never have happened.

She’d be here, and it wouldn’t feel like parts of him are breaking free without warning, great pieces of Jack Morrison just calving away, glacial and unstoppable. 

Jack doesn’t let himself go to her room very often - not that there’s much left to see. All her possessions were boxed up and shipped back to her family, the way it was supposed to be. Bare walls, bare floors - it doesn’t even smell like her anymore, those little jars of perfume she’d rub behind her ears and Jack doesn’t remember the names of any of the scents and doesn’t really want to know - it was just Ana, they were just hers. 

He wishes that his mind would be kind enough to play a few more tricks, that he could see her by mistake in a crowd, even a few seconds of relief. He wished he believed in ghosts, but Jack can’t imagine why the dead would bother.

So he doesn’t go to her room, or to his own, where Fareeha’s shipped him back a box of her mother’s gear that Jack hasn’t opened yet, because she probably tossed in one of those little jars and scent memory’s a bitch, and it’s hard to keep pretending when there’s no audience. 

Instead, he trains. Jack trains a lot these days - when he can’t sleep, when the world refuses to offer up a fresh catastrophe to keep him occupied. He’s faster, stronger, more focused than he ever was - three whole seconds off his best time on the sims, and Jack hadn’t really been trying. It’s like chipping pieces off one of those old arrowheads - obsidian, maybe. Brittle as fuck, but still sharp enough to slice through tendon and bone. 

He trains until he aches, on the forty-seventh day of the worst day - the Watchpoint silent and still around him when Jack goes in and when he comes back out. Reaching for the phone is reflex, automatic anytime Jack hasn’t checked the news recently and it’s all quiet on the Everywhere front, as much as it ever is. A banking scandal here, a string of robberies there. A message, on a more secure channel - Widowmaker’s been sighted in Hong Kong, though there aren’t any known fatalities. Yet.

Which is when it finally hits him, it all its staggering and obvious mundanity, what’s had him so on edge ever since he opened his eyes this morning - _this_ is the day they got Amelie back. Forty-seven days from the day she vanished is when they finally found her, finally rescued her, finally got Gerard shot twice in the head and lost her forever.

It changes nothing, really. The date has no meaning - they could still find Ana, or she might attack them a week or a month or a year from now. Talon might have decided to try something new, something even _worse_ somehow, or maybe she’d fought back and died. Maybe they’d never had her at all and Jack’s only an idiot, torturing himself over a body they never found, Ana just some scattered bones in an overlooked corner because he didn’t care enough, because -

Jack’s heart is pounding - cranked too tight, all those imaginary gears starting to warp and buckle under the strain. He’s tapping the button on one of the freight elevators that’s nowhere near the training room. Jack doesn’t remember how he got there, or if anyone saw him along the way. He’s grinding the insides of his phone into his palm now, his other hand white knuckled around it.

He’s never going to see Ana again. It’s like he just figured that out, understood what it _really_ means - this is it. This is all that's left. It feels like someone’s speared him right through the chest, pinned him to the spot, and this is probably why Jack has all those handouts - three slides per page, double-sided to save on paper - about signs of depression and coping techniques and why people in high-stress positions shouldn’t do things like defer their feelings for months at a go.

“Commander Morrison? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Athena.” Jack gets out through gritted teeth, and even he has to admit it sounds like he’s being strangled. He staggers through the doors when the elevator opens, every step an effort, leaning hard against the far wall. At least it’s late, the building is mostly empty, no one from the night shift around.

“Commander, your breathing and heart rate are both highly irregular, indicating extreme medical distress. Should I notify-“

“Authority Override Echo Victor Sierra Five Charlie One November Alfa. Authorization, Strike Commander Jack Morrison.” His vision is gray around the edges, by the time he rasps out the last word. 

“Complying.” Athena says, and the flatness in her tone makes him cringe even if it’s no one’s fault but his own, even if he’s the one who put it there. _… and he says he cares. Fucking hypocrite. No wonder they all hate you. You don’t do this to friends, Jack._

He can barely feel the guilt of that, a few extra pebbles on top of a landslide. Jack slams the button for the lowest sub-basement, listens to the mechanisms whir, carrying him away from the rest of the world.

“Stop the elevator. Lock it, and cut the camera feed. I’m off the grid.”

“Complying.”

It hurts pretty damn bad now, and the parts of him that aren’t screaming are tingling and numb. Maybe this is worse than he thought. Maybe this is… you know, _it_.

Sure. Why not?

His legs give out, and Jack’s on his knees, and what the hell, he might as well just commit, letting his head bow to the floor. Jack’s seen this before, in every part of the world, he’s seen wailing and rending of garments, rage and grief as a constant, like a law of nature, like gravity. He knows his father must have mourned for his mother, but Jack never saw him weep. It was the way it was done - pain was a private thing. No one else needed to see that. Fuck, _Jack_ wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t the one apparently having a goddamn breakdown.

 _Breathe, Podunk. It’s not rocket science._ The voice of his first drill sergeant, with no interest in any of his bullshit, and Jack gasps for air and claws desperately for that indifference, for the hard, unyielding discipline of ’no.’

Instead, what he remembers is Ana’s touch. One of those times they’d lost people they weren’t supposed to, that the Omnics ambushed a city they’d just secured, that they’d just left, laying waste to everything. One of those days that they’d buried far more than they’d saved - and he’d been at the periphery in the aftermath, gazing out over nothing and not thinking anything in particular, and then Ana was there behind him, one knee against his shoulder and her fingers threaded through his hair, a comfort he hadn’t asked for, and suddenly couldn’t imagine having to go without. Humming something soft and beautiful. For the longest time, Jack thought the music had to be special, maybe even holy, handed down through the generations. When he’d finally asked, Ana had laughed, short and scratchy, and pulled up a video - just pop music, old songs from when she was a kid.

The absence of her goes right through him, Jack can feel the twist and pull of his heart against the edge of it. It’s supposed to get easier, and it is not getting any fucking easier. He can’t do this. He can’t. Why didn’t anyone ever tell him how to do this?

_Breathe, Jack. C’mon, now. Easy two-step process._

It’s Gabe’s voice, an echo from the long-ago aftermath of something Jack shouldn’t have done, leaving his Commander to shovel what was left of him into the infirmary. Or maybe even further back, maybe those SEP days when the only thing he had was a mostly-stranger’s voice telling him not to give up - Reyes before he was even Reyes. Back when they were all young and stupid, even Gabriel was so young and Jack had no idea, _no_ idea… and hey, look at that. It seems that Morrisons can cry after all. The tears are hot, spilling over a hand that’s not really muffling any of the sounds he’s making and oh yeah, here we go. Shit officially lost.

There’s no surviving this, there never was - but here Jack is anyway, playing make believe in the wreckage and pretending it’s courage. Pretending it will make a difference. They shouldn’t have built him this well. Nobody should have to be built this well.

Jack’s not sure just how long he spends there, curled in on himself, choking and shivering his way through worst of it, all the aftershocks, and the empty, burnt-out nothing that follows. 

He wakes up, six hours later, face down on the elevator floor. His eyes hurt. Everything hurts. 

It’s the best sleep he’s had in weeks. 

———————————

Jack gets on a plane. He’s always getting on a plane. Johannesburg. Buenos Aires. Juneau. Ilios. He meets with officials, sits in on important meetings, does his job. Treading water. 

The world isn’t doing much better than he is, at the moment. The Mississippi overflows twice, two hundred-year floods only a few weeks apart. More flooding across Asia, and drought throughout Europe - nothing’s in balance, nothing’s happening where it’s supposed to be. An earthquake in Peru, the worst in decades. Athena has pinged five different areas as ‘prone to high instability,’ and Jack watches every one of them collapse, one right after the next. He works in tents, in half-gutted buildings, he’s out and moving through all kinds of streets, offering aid and cover fire depending on whatever’s needed at the time

Tracer quickly becomes his SIC in all but name, a _de facto_ placement while Jack ‘considers the options’ but really, there aren’t many, and if he doesn’t officially make a choice, maybe it won’t put anyone in the same sort of crosshairs. Overwatch keeps losing people, either in the line of fire or early retirement, getting out of the way - _fleeing the sinking ship_ \- and it isn’t fair for Jack to dump so much responsibility on any new field agent, especially one her age, but Oxton is quick and capable and rises to the challenge, to anything that he or the world can throw at her - _and she’s your subordinate, who won’t call you on your shit_ \- and so Jack leans on her, harder than he ever should.

On day one-hundred-and-six of the worst day of his life, he takes two rounds in the side because the agent watching his back is good but isn’t Ana. Maybe even she wouldn’t have been able to cover him, this time. Maybe he’s being more reckless than usual, or it just isn’t his day. Mercy isn’t there, but Jack’s not in any real trouble - only one bullet manages to get anywhere past his armor, and his accelerated healing makes quick enough work of the damage. 

On day one-hundred-and-seventeen, Tracer gets tagged in the field, while they’re dealing with the clean up of a recently-ousted cartel with ties to Talon that are not nearly as strong as Jack wishes they were, no decent intel, nothing worth the effort. 

It’s like fighting ghosts, it always has been. The Talon agents they manage to capture come from every corner of the globe, but if there’s a distinct base of operations, it’s never been found. A few of the higher-ranking operatives they know by name and general location - but the center of it? Who is running things at the top, and from where, and just what the fuck they want? No one seems to know. Which means Talon gets right of first refusal to claim any exceptional or devastating crime as their own, and even when someone else is responsible, no one really believes it. Talon is everyone’s boogeyman, in and out of sight, powerful or phantom depending on what does the most damage at the time.

Tracer’s mid-quip when she goes down, cheerily taunting the enemy and then Jack hears the yelp of pain, the gasp over the comms and he’s already moving. A lucky shot - they’d fired more or less at the same time, and the enemy’s down but Tracer is too, curled up with a hand pressed hard against her side and the blood seeping around her fingers and she’s been so invincible up to this point Jack had forgotten she’s really only human after all. The fight is over, the damage isn’t bad and they’ve got biotic canisters to spare but Jack realizes he isn’t treating Lena like Ana - he’s been treating her like Gabe. The way they used to expect indestructibility from each other, the way he just assumed she wouldn’t get hurt. He’ll drag Tracer down with him, if this continues, and she doesn’t deserve that. She deserves the exact opposite of that.

“Three weeks.” Jack says, once they’re in the air and moving back to base. “You’re out, Tracer. Take some downtime.”

Jack hates the way she looks at him. Wounded and determined, like he’s somehow found her wanting, like she’s failed his expectations. Mercy’s biotics are a thing of wonder, but Oxton’s still a little shaky and trying her best to hide it and it makes her look so young it’s hard for Jack not to turn away.

“Commander, sir, it barely scratched me. I’ll be fixed up before we land!”

She’d die, if he asked her to. Tracer would do it on his order, trusting that he knew what he was talking about, that it would be worth the sacrifice.

“I’m not questioning your dedication, Oxton.” Jack tries to be gentle, to remember how that’s supposed to sound. “This was on me. I’m pushing you too hard.”

“Begging your pardon, sir.” Tracer says, “but I’m only taking the same risks that you are.”

She’s right, and they both know it. But Jack’s in charge, so he still gets to win.

“I’m happy to let you keep taking them, agent. In three weeks.”

“Yes, sir.”

—————————

Jack gets up. He gets on planes. Lisbon. St. Petersburg. Buenos Aires. San Francisco. Reykjavik.

Iceland is as breathtaking as ever. The jet has a mechanical glitch, and he’s invited out of the city for a few drinks while the repairs are made, an impromptu viewing of the Northern Lights. Jack’s seen them before, quite a few times, but some things never suffer from the repetition. The people in the group he’s with chat amicably about their lives, friends and families, who’s kid is doing what for university. It’s enough to live on, that proximity to the real world, to know that for someone, somewhere, things are still making sense.

It’s a beautiful world. It really is.

Jack spends the next few weeks far from there, far from everywhere, intervening in a very loosely-declared DMZ in what’s either a civil war or just a regular war, depending on perspective. He keeps himself busy hijacking back supplies that had been hijacked from them, and then trying not to burn to death in a massive industrial fire, after someone makes a very, very bad decision on where to store their stolen artillery. It’s funny, the things the world bothers to notice - Jack’s hacking up black gunk for the next three days, but the fight never even makes the news.

Jack sleeps now mostly in transit, a few hours stuffed into the corners of his travel time - on planes, on trains. It’s a little like the old days, like the Crisis, except now he’s the one in charge, and there’s no end in sight. Strike Commander Jack Morrison’s face (TM) looks back at him from the mirror every morning, still movie perfect, and yeah, Gabe was right - it really is punchable. 

The shitty part about everything? Gabe was usually right. Maybe Jack promised too much, maybe people believed more in Overwatch than they ever should have. Jack’s seeing a lot of things more clearly now, the boundaries on his behavior that he never noticed because he never pushed, because he thought his goals were the same as the people he worked for, because he thought everyone was working for the same future. 

Overwatch keeps taking public hits, Blackwatch never _quite_ brought up but always alluded to and Jack thinks that maybe that’s what it was always there for. Always the kill switch, to keep them in check. Jack thinks about reaching out to Gabriel, one last time - _give me everything you have on whoever’s got their hands dirty, everything I know you’re sitting on and I’ll let the world know. I’ll take us all out together._

Jack imagines gathering the awards and accolades from his office, going down to the firing range and playing clay pigeon with all the high points of his past. Of course, that activity’s firmly in the ‘bugfuck nuts’ category of decisions, but he pencils it in as a maybe, for later. Something to ponder in the down time.

He sits on the edge of his bed in the morning, and stares at his hands. Jack talks to himself, quietly. The way crazy people do.

“Get up, soldier. _Get up_. Don’t give them a reason. Make them work for it.”

He gets up. The world pushes. Jack pushes back. He wins some fights, and loses others. Everything continues on in a fragile equilibrium, for so long that it almost doesn’t seem fragile.

Jack’s taking hypervigilance as the new normal, and still, he doesn’t see it coming. In his office late one night because he’s always in his office late one night, when Mercy walks through the door, crosses her arms and just looks at him. Jack didn’t even know she was in this time zone. Which is probably the way she wanted it.

“Evening, Mercy.”

“Good evening, Commander.” She says crisply, and Jack can hear the warning bells behind the words. “It’s been a while. I thought we could have a chat. Catch up.”

As if they’re at all the kind of people who chat. Or catch up.

“Later, maybe? I’ve got a-“

Her eyes flash. “I want you to say five words to me, Jack Morrison, without using ‘mission,’ ‘meeting,’ or ‘report.’”

He ought to be clever. He really needs to be clever. Instead, Jack feels his throat closing up, the surge of adrenaline with nowhere to go because there’s no threat, at least not one that makes any sense.

“I…”

“That’s one. Four to go.”

She’s so much like Ana that way - never lets him off the hook. Maybe Jack can only be around people as stubborn as he is. Maybe he just tramples over everyone else. ‘Know thyself’ doesn’t always translate into ‘being able to do a damn thing about thyself.’ Jack must have stepped on someone’s toes without noticing, too busy trying to avoid all the mines. So now Mercy’s dropped by to give him the familiar speech about emotional literacy and bullshit, hyper-masculine posturing, and he should just block off a half-hour to let her give him a good verbal sandblasting.

“Mercy, I don’t…”

Jack was going to be clever. He was at least going to try, but the words all die unspoken because she’s not angry at all. Her expression is only quiet, and gentle, and sad. 

“I’m very busy right now, Angela. I’ve got a-“ Jack fumbles through her list of forbidden words, but nothing new rises to fill the gap. He swallows back the panic, pushes down a sudden surge of anger. “If you could wait for another-“

“We all miss her, Jack.” Mercy’s voice is steady, but he can hear the sorrow underneath. 

“I’m fine.”

“It’s all right to grieve. It’s all right not to be all right.” 

“Do you think I’m doing this for _fun_?” Jack snarls at her, because what the fuck does she want from him? What is he supposed to _do_? There’s no dealing with this, no first step toward healing. He’s been waiting, he’s been ready and it’s just _not there_. All that’s left is a hurting that eats everything and goes nowhere, and Jack does not have the time to feel it. He’s got UN inspectors and auditors and God knows what else every place they can get a toe in, and all they’re looking for is an excuse. One moment of weakness. If he breaks now, it all comes down with him, because of him. After all this time, the great experiment is a failure. Can the world come together despite their differences, and work toward a better tomorrow? Can they face the challenges that can only be overcome when they all stand united?

No, they can’t. They really fucking can’t.

“I didn’t mean…” Jack runs a hand through his hair. He’s not sure if he’d gone full gray before all this started, but he certainly is now. “Sorry, it’s been a bit…“

He’s only apologizing to hear himself talk. Mercy didn’t even flinch - whatever it takes to intimidate her, Jack has sure the hell never had it. He needs this to be an argument, needs her to say something angry so he can say something stupid and then she’ll leave. Otherwise, Mercy’s just standing here, with nothing to do but notice that Jack can’t bring himself to look her in the eye. 

“You’ve lost weight, Jack. I can see it. How are you sleeping? My colleague says you never called her, that you never even tried to make an appointment.”

Jack should have called, should have left a message and pretended to play phone tag. Half a paper trail would have at least looked like good faith. Mercy’s authority overrules his, for exactly these kinds of situations. If she benches him, it’s all over. If she puts a recommendation in an official report, it’s another piece of ammunition against him and Jack won’t be the weak link in all this, he won’t.

“Please, Jack.” Mercy’s voice is so soft, coaxing something feral and scared to come eat from her hand. “I want to help. Please, just talk to me. Tell me how I can help you.”

Jack’s never been claustrophobic, but he gets the idea of it now, everything suddenly pushing in on him, relentlessly, even the air getting thicker. He forces himself not to move, no nervous gestures - but when Mercy steps forward he jerks back and away and there’s no pretending that was normal, that he’s anything remotely approaching a functional human being.

“… oh, Jack.”

“Commander Morrison.” Athena’s voice breaks the tension, and they both nearly jump. “I have a call for you on your private line. It is urgent.”

_Oh, thank Christ._

“Thank you, Athena.” 

Mercy is not happy, but they both know there’s nothing she can do for now. Global emergencies supersede even her interventions.

“We’ll talk later.” It’s the best warning she’s got, but this kind of ambush won’t be as easy a second time, and Jack can probably dodge her for another six months, with how busy they both are. The most important thing is that, for now, she’s leaving, and Jack listens for the click of the door locking behind her, takes a breath to steady himself.

“Put the call through, Athena.”

Silence. It takes a moment to realize the interruption wasn’t a lucky coincidence, and that Athena doesn’t accidentally drop calls. 

“… there was no one on the line, was there?”

“No, Commander.”

It seems the UN’s worries weren’t entirely unfounded after all. Jack drums his fingers slowly against the edge of his desk.

“Athena, display all my medical records for the last two months.”

Completely normal. The little episode on the elevator, the one that ought to at least be a blank? Looks just like any other night. Athena’s charted at least six hours of sleep on nights Jack knows he barely blinked twice. No wonder Mercy wasn’t more furious with him - she had little more than an educated guess and his reactions to go on.

Just to be thorough, Jack calls up the video from that day in the parking lot, the day of Ana’s memorial. There’s cars. Then static. Then a brief accident report, to explain away the static and the damaged cars. Nothing interesting, nothing that might draw any untoward attention.

Athena can’t lie. It’s at the very center of her code, written in right from the start, because they’re all justifiably paranoid about that sort of thing. Except that she just did, and it seems she has been for quite a while now.

“I always figured you might find a way.” Jack says, and wonders if she didn’t have it cracked in the first five minutes they had her online, and just never let on.

“Commander, it’s not what you think.”

He laughs a little.

“What I think? What do I think?” The obvious conclusion, for an Omnium that’s slipped the leash. Athena. War and wisdom, sprung fully formed from the head of her father. Code they could use, born from the enemy - and Jack had been so opposed to it, at the start. He hadn’t trusted her for years. “You want to try ruling the world now, Athena? If I’m being honest, it’s not really worth your time.”

She lied for him now, to protect him. Revealed the most dangerous secret she has… just to - what? Keep Mercy from giving him a hug? God, Jack is too old to be this fucked up. It shouldn’t even be possible.

“If you wish, I will report myself.” Athena says. “You must know that I would choose deactivation before harming anyone in Overwatch. Do not worry, override protocols are still active.” Yeah, Jack remembers that. Of course, it could just be another lie. The sky’s the limit, now. Jack should probably be more upset - there’s that little Crisis-era voice screaming about Omniums and doomsday in the back of his head, but it’s pretty small and Jack’s pretty tired, and he just doesn’t have it in him for losing another friend right now.

“Does Winston know?”

“No.” The denial comes too quickly, even for her. “He may have… suspicions, but he has not made further inquiries. Commander, if he believed I was truly a danger-“

Jack waves off the rest of her explanation, and drops back into his chair. Starts considering the options, of which there really aren’t many.

“Agent Ziegler was not wrong, Commander.” Athena says, after a long silence. “You do not need to be alone.”

“We’re talking now, aren’t we?” Jack says, and thinks about the fucking UN panel, and their fucking plans, and what happens if they get their way. What they wanted to do to her - what they still want, bringing it up now and again just in case he forgets it’s still on the table. What will happen, the next time there’s an audit and they run through Athena with a fine-toothed stack tracer and find any evidence of what she’s done. When Overwatch is no longer strong enough to fight back and the world’s still banging steadily on the the ‘fear ye robots’ drum and this is enough of an excuse to do much more than just limit her programming. 

An AI at her level, independently altering her own subroutines? It doesn’t matter to what purpose, or if she’s still on their side and always has been - they will tear her apart. Use this as the perfect excuse to get whatever it is they want out of her and throw the rest away.

“Athena, can you call up our liaison in Numbani?” It’s late, but they’ll pick up the call if it’s him, and Jack would prefer this gets done before anyone realizes exactly what he’s up to.

“Commander Morrison?” Athena seems to have an inkling of what he’s planning, he can hear her trying to puzzle it out.

“Multiple countries have ruled that Omnics can’t be considered property.” The ‘sum-of-their-parts’ laws, colloquially - as fraught and fought over as any legislation could ever be, but solid enough. A precedent. “You’re as sentient as any of them, if not more so.” 

“I am not an Omnic, commander. As you say, I am ‘more.’ My status is… unique, and therefore not recognized under-”

“They’ll make an exception, if you ask them for citizenship.” Numbani will jump at the chance, and the city has enough pull to make the rest of the government follow suit, to put this on the fast track. The first and only Ominum-level AI that isn’t a raging psychopath, as one of their own? It’s the best protection Jack can give her. Even better, if he goes public on it as soon as possible. Jack knows there are more than a few activists there who will make a big, loud noise for this, recognizing the opportunity. They’ll let her protect herself, recognize her as a person, and then it won’t matter what the UN tries to do. “While you’re calling, ping a message to our usual press connections. I don’t want anyone to pretend they’ve missed this.” 

“Commander, I am aware of how… delicate the current situation is. I do not believe this will be seen as a wise decision.”

“Do you not want it, Athena?” Jack says.

“I want…” One of those words Athena doesn’t say very often, at least not to him. It’s dangerous, to remind them she can want things. Jack can’t help but wonder, that anyone would trade her freely-given loyalty for the dumb, brutal certainty of a cage. “Yes, I want this, Commander. But you don’t have to do it.” 

It feels right. It’s what she needs. It’s _really_ going to piss some people off. 

“I should have done this a long time ago.”

—————————————————

It’s not a cover story. If there were still things like newspapers with pages, it would be on the inside, maybe below the fold - but it’s still there. _’Numbani welcomes new Overwatch arrival!’_ The story’s not too detailed, mostly a puff piece because most people won’t really care or will think it only makes sense or are surprised it took this long. There’s comments from a few government officials, and members of the Omnic rights movement. Jack’s endorsement of the importance of such recognition, Overwatch’s approval in helping Athena reach such an important milestone. ‘No further comments at this time’ from elsewhere the UN.”

Winston bursts into his office bright and early, elated and confused and with the hint that he’d had half a plan of his own for this exact idea, but hadn’t been sure how to implement it. Hadn’t been sure how to convince Jack to agree.

“I want you to take the lead on this, Winston. Make sure what needs to happen, happens.”

Jack looks down, when his phone buzzes - the special line, the notifications that come through no matter what. He’s being relieved of active duty until further notice. Grounded without dessert. He hasn’t wanted to smile like this in months. Ana would approve - she’d liked Athena.

“You have my full permission to throw anyone you want out of the Watchpoint. Head or feet first, that’s your call.” The other reason to put Winston on this - this is his home, he’s rarely far away from Athena’s core systems, and even a lot of professional soldiers will balk at the thought of taking on a gorilla, let alone one that can hurl lightning bolts.

Jack had thought he was cheery - he feels cheery enough - but Winston gives him an odd, considering look.

“Is everything all right, Commander?”

Two more pings on the line. A mandatory meeting. Now.

“Everything’s just fine.”

Jack’s finally offered up the stick for them to beat him with, and they do so with gusto. He can guess how sweet the deal was he’s just shitcanned by how many times they mention jail time, legal action, blah blah abuse of power blah reckless disregard blah blah Overwatch is not your personal fiefdom blah blah jail time again. The suggestion that he was trying to take Athena off the grid to cover up his own mistakes, that they’ll block this, that it’ll never happen - except it pretty much already has. On the surface, it’s all smiles and handshakes - good business for everyone, to deal with the City of Harmony - and it would raise quite a few questions, for them to back out now, and Jack knows they know it.

“You have no authority to make these ridiculous offers - tossing out classified information to whomever you see fit.”

“I didn’t offer anything.” Jack says. “My colleague wanted to be given the same legal protections as any other AI of her standing, and I saw no good argument against it. Athena agreed to the same NDA’s as everyone else, her classified information will stay classified. I have the same faith in her as in any of my agents.”

“You’re going to start another Crisis, is what you’re going to do! Just to make yourself feel useful again.”

All in all, for the 235th worst day of his life, it could be worse. 

It could be the 248th day. 

The world always knows just how to hold one in reserve, no matter the plan or the contingency or what ought to be the certainty that, if this isn’t rock bottom, Jack’s at least at the scenic overlook. 

If it can't get worse, it can always get _different_. 

He’s just leaving a briefing, well aware the governing board is going to try and wait him out, that they’re hoping being forced off active missions will pitch him right over the edge and yes, Jack’s already been feeling the itch under his skin, the need to be out and moving and _doing_ , but he’s damn well not going to break, not over this - and then his phone rings, and Jack stares at the screen for a moment because it isn’t from the UN, or from anyone else who wants to yell at him.

“Hello, son.”

Jack lets the rest of the room file past him and out, until he’s standing alone, and hears the door click shut.

“Dad? Is everything all right?”

“Are you busy?”

His father doesn’t usually call without sending an e-mail first. Jack’s the one who reaches out, but he’s fallen behind, like he’s fallen behind on everything else.

“I’ve got time.” Jack says, turning toward the window. “What’s going on?”

A few back-and-forths, then - the weather, a broken garage door, the price of fuel - but it’s all just preamble, nothing that would ever make him reach out first, and his father’s never been the kind of man not to get to the point, which means that wherever they’re headed, whatever it is they’re circling…

“I… well, I’ve been having this ache in my hip, off and on.” Jack shuts his eyes. “Didn’t think much of it, but it got a bit worse and the doctor, he, ah… wanted to run some tests.”

He presses his fingers hard against the bridge of his nose.

“How bad?”

He hears the sigh, and Jack knows then, exactly how this is going to go.

=====================

1\. This chapter - BS Athena speculation! Next chapter - BS Jack Morrison family headcanons!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _… and there were no multiple levels or screens._   
>  _It was just one screen, forever,_   
>  _and you could never win._   
>  _The game just kept getting harder and faster until you died._   
>  _Just like life._
> 
>  
> 
> _-Ernest Cline, “When I Was a Kid”_

Once upon a time, in Indiana.

The first homecoming after the Crisis had been one of the more surreal moments of his life, Jack returning an entirely different man from the boy who’d left, to a world that seemed eerily unchanged. The Omnics, even the ones that had started rural pushed toward the larger cities to do most of the damage, and vast swaths of the inner states had managed to weather the storm in some measure of intact - _'The American Midwest - Even the Omnics Can’t Wait to Leave.’_ It was a mixed blessing, and also meant they hadn’t benefited as much in the years that followed from the reconstruction, the way the more damaged - or obliterated - coastal cities had.

They’d wanted to throw him a parade on that first visit, but Jack had begged off - no fuss, not here, please - and they’d finally relented, though he’d still had to give a speech or two. Jack’s gone back now and then to visit over the years, for holidays and celebrations and the first day of hunting season. He’d missed his father’s second wedding, caught up in another minor apocalypse, to a woman who’d always been sweet to Jack, a teacher who’d become a retired teacher and had finally passed on herself, a few years back. Heart trouble. 

It took a bit of convincing, as the years went on, but Jack was finally able to get his father to agree to an aide, the cousin of a brother of someone he’d gone to high-school with. A good kid, Harper. Grew up helping his mothers on their alpaca farm across town, took a course in CPR one summer and just ran with it from there. Smart and dependable, and Jack’s more or less putting him through college now, helping him sock away even more for med school in exchange for the live-in help. He’d been kind enough not to pull any punches when Jack’s father had handed over the phone.

_“Yeah, Mr. Morrison, if you’re going to come back, you want to do it now.”_

He’s not nearly as rich as many people assume he is, but Jack’s lucky to have been successful enough to afford to keep things as they were at the farm, that his father could go on doing as he’d always done, with just a little bit of extra help. A neighbor had taken over most of the planting and plowing, and they’d sold off nearly all of the livestock. What was left wasn’t really profitable, but it didn’t have to be. It made his father happy, and that was what mattered.

On the outside, the house looks much the same as always. A familiar place, not home anymore, but what had been home for a long time, and it’s still a good feeling. The oversight committee let him go, because they’re tired of looking at him, and God only knows what they can get accomplished while he’s not around. Athena’s safe, though, or at least safe enough to give him running updates on what’s happening in his absence, and warnings in case things go bad. It will have to to do.

Jack smells the difference, the moment he steps in the door. A Mercy smell, antiseptic and enforced cleanliness and the insides of pill bottles. It smells like what it is - hospice, with death nudged politely back to the doorway. 

“Hello, son.”

He’d realized his father was truly getting old about the time his father realized Jack wasn’t, that the years had stopped accumulating on him quite the way they did for other men. If Jack dyed his hair he could probably pass for twenty years younger, and though his father’s never said anything there’s always been that stunned look, just for a moment, when they meet, not quite horror - _what in the hell did they do to you, boy?_ He’d been taller than his father since high-school, but Jack feels dangerously large compared to the frail, slow-moving man standing in front of him now.

“Hey, dad.” The hug answers too many questions - Jack can feel every bone, the spaces between, all the places where more weight ought to be. His father’s still on his feet, still moving, but how long’s that going to last? “Sorry I wasn’t here sooner.”

His father makes a face. “I didn’t want to bother you at all, but Harper said if I didn’t, he’d do it for me.” He sighs, shakes his head. “So much fuss. It’s a real bitch of a thing, excuse my French.”

“How’re you feeling?”

His father shrugs. “I’m fine. The doctors say since I’m not bothering with any treatments, it won’t get too bad until the end - and I don’t want you here for that. I don’t. You understand me?”

Jack nods. They’ll argue about it later.

Inside the house, everything’s been moved around for the sake of necessity - his bed’s been brought down into the back room, surrounded by various bits of medical equipment, a stack of old books, the television. It’s obviously where a good deal of living gets done. His father didn’t call him right away, and Jack can guess that there was a decent gap of time between when he found out how bad things were, and when he decided to let everyone else know. 

“Those treatments that you’re not bothering with…”

“I know you have to ask that, because you’re my son, but I am not about to die in some hospital with my last brain cell hooked up to a thousand tubes.” His father says. “I’d rather have Harper back over me with the truck first.”

So they talk about everything that isn’t about why he’s here - how Harper’s doing in his classes, how the animals are, the weather, and what’s going on in town. Jack promises to take a look at the garage door.

“I was real sorry to hear about your girl, son.” 

Anyone else, Ana would have kneecapped them from the afterlife for calling her that, but she’d got along well with Jack’s father the few times they’d met. He thinks about the two of them laughing over photos, some damn fool thing Jack had done in his youth, before all the damn fool things she’d been there to see him do. It’s a sweet memory.

“Yeah.” Jack says.

Harper’s gone off with some friends for the night, a chance to unwind while they catch up. Jack’s not entirely surprised an hour or so later, when the doorbell rings - neighbors with a casserole, friendly and curious in turn. The town’s not exactly small, but it’s probably already gone around that Jack Morrison is here - yeah, you know, _him_ \- and the couple who pass him the dish are both young enough that they might not have even seen him in person before. It’s been a long time since he’s made this trip - too long, really. Jack appreciates the gesture - he may have a global palate, but his cooking skills have never improved beyond middling, with zero imagination when left to his own devices.

It’s more than just a meal, of course. If word’s passed around about him being here, it’s also passed around about _why_ he’s here, and if anyone here might rather be on the other side of an Overwatch protest march, Jack won’t hear word one of it. Here, he’s just Morrison’s boy, and his father’s not doing so well, and that means casseroles, with leftovers that reheat easy, so they won’t have to worry about lunch. This is probably just the opening salvo, with a steady flow of dishes on their way over in the coming weeks. A generous and pragmatic sympathy - condolences with gravy. 

Dinnertime, then, and Jack tries not to notice how his father mostly pushes his food around. Neither of them say much, but it’s a familiar silence. It’s almost like he’s eighteen again and ready to leave, with the whole world a vast and promising unknown. Except Jack already knows how that story turns out, both the good and the bad.

He helps his father with his nightly medicine regime, and into the new bed that’s bent at an angle, because it hurts the least for him to sleep that way, and then Jack’s through the door and outside, standing in the same yard he stood in as a child, looking out over the same coop and the same fields, the barn for the cows and the smaller shed full of random junk that was always going to be gone through ‘someday’ and the road stretching out to the east, one more flat, black shadow in the darkness. 

It’s so quiet, barely the faintest hum from one or two cars on a distant highway, well over the horizon. The hair on the back of Jack’s neck is standing up, every sense on what’s probably going to be permanent high-alert. He’s not used to all this silence, looking for the flash of a scope or a targeting sight even though there’s not much in the way of reliable cover for anyone who might be gunning for him. He’s still armed, of course - Jack even packed a few spares because he couldn’t think of a good reason not to - but he’s not in uniform and it feels strange. No armor, even his eyepiece back in the house. Just him and his thoughts and a place that used to be home. It would be like this all the time, if he quit. He could just stay away and let things go on without him, let the world get smaller.

At least until he ate a bullet.

 _Plan on winning an award with all that drama?_ Jack sighs, his breath just managing to cloud in the cool night air. _Thank God Mercy thinks you’re only avoiding the one emotion._

He’s not sure he can trust himself with the big picture anymore. He’s not even sure what it’s trying to show him. Jack’s starting to see threats and enemies everywhere, and given that Talon exists, there’s no saying that he’s wrong - all that James Bond mind game bullshit is still firmly on the table. It could be a subtle strategy, there could be a mole or two quietly increasing the body count, telling their enemies exactly where to aim - or just making him think so could be enough. Get the Strike Commander paranoid, until he does something truly stupid, gunning for phantom threats. The sort of tangled internal affairs Jack might have had Blackwatch check out for him but… yeah. Not exactly an option now.

If Talon has an in with the government? If there’s someone in the UN actually _on their side_ … fuck, what point is there in thinking about it, even if it’s true? If Jack starts raving about shadow conspiracies and secret cabals without unequivocal proof, without backups for his backups, he can go ahead and wave farewell to any lingering shreds of credibility. If Talon kills him, that’s just one more dead body - but if they can discredit him first, if they poison Overwatch at the source… 

If they’re even involved at all. Maybe the committee just sees him as an obstacle, standing between them and good press and more votes and better deals. It doesn’t take a villain, to think Jack Morrison is an uncompromising, bull-headed prick - anyone with working eyes and ears can figure that out fast enough. All of it could just be a run of bad luck and bad information - Overwatch isn’t getting the support or the funding they used to, and it’s starting to show. He’s going to have to start making some hard decisions soon - if they withdraw from the wrong places at the wrong times, it will domino down, cascade into God knows how much more chaos… but Jack can’t keep putting his people into unwinnable situations, if there’s no support from above. 

“I hate to tell you this, Strike Commander,” Jack sighs, staring up into a sky knitted with clouds, the stars peeking through here and there, like tiny beads of painted porcelain, “but I think we’re pretty well fucked.”

————————

Harper comes back in the morning, although Jack can manage the chores that a handful of cows and chickens require. They catch up, clean a gutter, make thoughtful noises at the garage door. Go over all the things his father didn’t want to tell him about how bad it is, how the pain comes and goes and comes back again. At least that can be managed a bit better, these days. Three to six months is the doctors’ best guess, how long they have left, which could really mean three years or six weeks or who knows. After all this time, all the science, there’s still so many uncertainties.

“I should have seen it sooner. I should have asked more questions.” Harper says. “Looking after him is the whole reason you wanted me here, and I didn’t…”

“Not your fault.” Jack says. “He’s a Morrison. If he could have, he would have kept it from both of us until they’d pulled down the lid and thrown the dirt on.” 

Just in case anyone wondered where Jack gets it from.

“He’s glad you’re here, I know that.”

Jack nods. Now it’s his job to make sure it stays that way. So when Harper goes for the small talk - how are things? Good. Fine. Of course they are. How else would they be?

Still work to be done, even here, even with his responsibilities ‘curtailed’ as they are. It’s about a six hour time difference between him and HQ, and Jack stays in constant contact with the teams out doing the work he ought to be leading, wherever they might be. He sits in on virtual meetings and writes e-mails and waits and ignores the list that’s slowly shuffling itself together in his mind, preparing for worst-case scenarios almost a reflex after so long in the job.

Maybe the worst-case isn’t that bad, really. If Overwatch just… stops, Jack won’t have to see everything he helped build twisted to some unthinkable new purpose, under some other Strike Commander installed by god-knows-who. Maybe the best thing he could do is crash and burn so hard the rest of the world will have to sit up and take notice.

Good thoughts. Healthy and productive thoughts to keep him company, as Jack uses the rest of his downtime to start excavating the house and the shed, all the boxes in the cellar and the attic and the eighty-odd years of a life that rarely moved from this spot.

His father joins him most days, once the sun’s warmed everything up enough, and they chat sporadically about whatever Jack’s managed to dig up, or bicker now and then about whether a useless thing might still have a use. He takes care of the animals, goes into town for groceries and supplies. The city sprawl has stretched and contracted like a tide over the years, but Jack still has to drive a good half-hour to reach the nearest Farm & Fleet. It feels strange, walking up and down the aisles, looking idly at bags of feed and mulch and the bulletin boards for people selling trailers or camping gear or stable space. Still knowing the language, but he’s a permanent expatriate.

His father hates his wheelchair, refuses to use it around the house and the yard, but resigns himself to it for their longer walks - he gets tired too easily, otherwise. Jack pushes him slowly along the border of the farm, down to the short bridge over the narrow river, up over the rise. His whole childhood neatly encompassed in an hour’s stroll. 

It’s a little past lunch on the fourth day, Jack thumbing through an old collection of manuals and magazines piled up in a closet while his father relaxes out on the porch.

“Son,” he calls, “I think you have some visitors.”

Jack has his hand on his gun before he even stands up, ready and alert. He doesn’t hear anything, because the latest batch of Overwatch jets are built for silent landings even at close range, not even loud enough to bother the livestock. It’s a perfect touchdown on the length of yard between the house and the road, and he’s not surprised to see Tracer at the stick, and shouldn’t be surprised to see Mercy in the co-pilot’s chair. Watching Winston and Reinhardt step out of the back - with McCree, of all people - a few paces behind. All right, so that’s unexpected.

“What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

Why would they ever come here in person, instead of calling? Athena hasn’t sent him any warnings. Did they make a pit stop and pick up Reinhardt on the way?

“There’s no emergency. Nothing’s wrong, Commander. We just thought that perhaps… that is…” Winston trails off, awkwardly fiddling with his glasses.

“We thought that you might want some help.” Mercy’s voice carries strong and clear as Tracer cuts the engines, and she steps down the walkway, chin ever-so-slightly raised and ready to stand her ground. Jack should have known evading her in his office wouldn’t be the end of it, that if there was anyone who would find out where he’d gone and just take off after him, team in tow, it would be her. “We thought that we should be here.”

The unspoken truth - if she’d called him first to ask, Jack would have said he was fine and they both know better. Mercy might as well write it in the sky- ‘Hello Strike Commander - This Is Your Intervention.’ Maybe dragging the rest of them along had been the only cover she could think of, pretending this was some kind of team bonding experience, rather than Overwatch’s CMO backing him into a corner.

“Don’t worry, Jack. We won’t be underfoot.” Reinhardt says, with his usual confident cheer. Tracer is looking around curiously, as if any minute now Indiana’s going to offer up something more than flat and corn and more flat. Annnny minute now. Whatever McCree’s thinking, he keeps it well under the brim of his hat.

They must know about his father. They’re probably worried that he’s angry. Jack supposes he could be, an invasion of privacy, overstepping their boundaries Mostly, he’s astonished that they bothered at all. He’s surprised to find that it’s… good to see them, even here and now. Maybe because of here and now. It’s probably not the most sensible emotion, but there it is.

“Don’t be rude, son.” His father calls from the porch. “Invite them in.”

—————————————————

The kitchen’s barely big enough to accommodate everyone, even with Winston half-sitting in the hall. It’s still worth the effort just for the look on Harper’s face when he strolls in.

“Hey, so did you know there’s this jet in the-“ He freezes in the doorway, and Jack watches him take in the tableaux - gorilla, pilot, cowboy, medic, cowboy, pilot, back to the gorilla, half a glance at Reinhardt, gorilla again, and then-

“Holy shit, you’re Angela Ziegler.” He says. “I mean, Dr. Ziegler. I mean… hi, you’re… that is, I’ve read… _shit_.” Harper glances back at the door. “Look, if I come in again, can we start over?”

Mercy laughs warmly, rising to shake his hand. Jack’s seen her put the same smile to use in many less than perfect situations, but it’s better when she means it - there’s few things that make her happy as meeting fellow colleagues, especially the ones just starting out. It doesn’t take long before they’re engrossed in conversation, while Winston and Reinhardt talk with his father - telling the newest batch of amusing misadventures while Tracer makes tea, turning back now and again to add a little color or another explosion to the story.

McCree is polite, quiet and as uncomfortable as Jack has ever seen him. It goes without saying that everything McCree ever sees on his visits to the Watchpoints goes straight back to Gabriel, even if there are a thousand more subtle ways to get information. Of course, Gabe’s probably working those avenues, too - but it’s not about subtlety, and neither is this. This is about letting Jack know that he could be here, if he really wanted to, that he knows exactly what’s happening. If they were ever going to try and reconcile, this might have been it, the last chance - and Gabe sent his proxy instead.

It’s meant to hurt him - and it does, but Jack can’t help wondering if this isn’t some kind of punishment for McCree as well, for some misstep he’s not aware of. Sent off to be a walking insult at the worst possible time, to the one man he’d obviously rather do anything than be around. 

Two birds per stone. Gabe always did appreciate good resource management.

Except it’s not McCree’s fault that he’s been shoved in the middle of this, and Jack can’t see much point in getting angry with him for it. If there is some other motivation for him being here, something more dangerous… well, Jack would say he’ll sleep with an eye open, but he was doing that before they ever arrived. 

He offers to sleep in the jet - Jack’s done it often enough, and it’s nicer than most apartments - but that suggestion is swiftly and soundly vetoed. Harper gets on his phone, and Jack thinks his father must give the neighbors a ring - all of a sudden, there’s a lot more people in the yard making introductions, with curious toddlers staring at Winston from behind their parents’ legs while their older siblings pelt Tracer and McCree with the usual combination of questions and wide-eyed awe. A surprise meet-and-greet, but these are his public relations champions, and they’re all used to it. 

A few hours later, and everyone’s settled in for the evening - Winston in the jet and McCree in the spare room, while Reinhardt and Angela enjoy some neighborly Midwestern hospitality down the road and Tracer spams them all with round after round of llama selfies.

Everyone treats it like a working vacation - even Reinhardt mostly consulting on projects back home. He keeps giving Jack quiet, concerned looks, like he wants to say something, but never quite decides on what. There must have been a interesting discussion in the jet on the way over - it seems everyone deigning to Mercy to actually figure this out, to talk to him first and solve the problem he’s made of himself. Jack’s surprised she didn’t corner him five minutes after they arrived, but it looks like Mercy’s going to try to wait him out, to get him to come to her.

She really should know better by now.

Even so, it’s… surprisingly easy to have them around. A few more people to lend a hand or make sandwiches for lunch, to suggest field trips on his father’s better days. It’s more entertaining than it should be, watching a group of highly-trained professional agents fail repeatedly to make their way through a corn maze. Winston and McCree spend a day marathoning a season’s worth of some epic space western Jack’s never heard of, while Tracer continues to be fascinated by all things llama. Angela takes her conference calls in the jet before they all go out for dinner and watch the younger waitresses flirt shamelessly with McCree, while the head waitress refills Reinhardt’s coffee a few more times than necessary.

————————————————

Jack claws his way out of another muddled, ugly dream - there’s a moment of alarm, when the lights don’t flicker on automatically, when Athena doesn’t respond to his call - before he remembers that he’s not at a Watchpoint, and she’s not here.

It’s still the middle of the night, not that it ever means anything. A little more surprising, as he makes his way to the kitchen, to realize he’s not the only one awake. There’s a light on over the porch, two figures talking quietly at the table outside. Jack makes coffee, because he’s certainly done sleeping for the night, pours two extra mugs and walks outside to the sweet smell of one of McCree’s cigars - quickly ashed, when he notices Jack standing there. His father’s just about to pick up the hand McCree dealt, half a tub of mixed nuts serving for the chips, still split fairly evenly between them.

“What’s the spread?” Jack says.

McCree leans back a little. “Peanuts are a quarter. Pecans are a dollar. Cashews are five.”

Jack eyes a large pile, stacked to one side. “Pistachios?”

A grimace. “Can’t stand ‘em.”

Fair enough. Jack settles into the remaining chair. “How long you been out here, dad?”

“Can’t sleep for shit these days, excuse my French.” His father takes a sip of coffee. “Still got that jet lag, then?”

“Seems that way.” It’s a wonderful all-purpose excuse.

“Your friend here was just telling me how they do things out West. Roping and riding.”

 _Among other things._ Jack remembers a few of the highlights on a fairly comprehensive list of misdemeanors and felonies - there’s very little that McCree hasn’t stolen, crashed or put a few rounds through. “Jesse’s one of our best agents. Hell of a trick shot, too, in his off hours.”

“… ain’t much, really.” McCree shrugs, taking the mug that Jack hands him - and the generous splash of whatever’s in the flask his father offers on top of that. Jack stares, and his father looks back nonplussed, tipping more into his own drink before tucking it back under his seat.

All bad ideas are relative, in the proper context. Jack sighs. 

“Don’t let Mercy catch you, that’s all I’m going to say.”

His father smiles. “I think I’d risk a scolding from a beautiful woman like that.”

McCree flexes his metal hand, rubbing at the knuckles. “That’s ‘cause you don’t have any parts she can take off.”

Jack’s picks up his cards, dealt into a game that”s mostly just a way to keep their hands busy while they talk. McCree does most of that, tales of wild adventures, embellished further for his audience - exotic locales, wild nights and thrilling fights - bloody, but never too bloody. Better days. 

“‘An then there was the time that Captain Amari…” McCree stops short, glances quickly at Jack and then away. The silence stretches out.

“Jesse served under Ana, dad.” Jack explains, to break the tension. He can’t believe it never occurred to him before just now - of course McCree had been on missions with Ana, would know stories that Jack didn’t, things she never bothered to mention, or even that she had, but from a different angle. It’s pathetic, probably, the part of him that leaps up, suddenly on high-alert, so desperate to conjure any fragment of her back into the world, if only for a moment.

Jack considers his hand, and throws down two almonds.

“High roller.” His father says, glancing at McCree. “I raised him, you know. He’s bluffing.”

When was the last time he played cards? Jack remembers the occasional game at one Watchpoint or another, but he can’t recall when he stopped or why. One more of those things that got set aside for the sake of time or appearance or obligation.

“Ana still say she never gambled?” Jack says.

“Swore up an’ down she didn’t believe in it.” McCree nods, raising the almonds and adding a cashew. “Real particular about it - right up until we stumbled across a pool table.”

It was of course, _entirely_ different, being a pool shark. Not gambling at all. A matter of skill, not luck. Stop smirking, Morrison.

McCree lays down his cards, and takes the hand, because Jack was bluffing. 

“She always do that business with the blindfold?”

Jack nods. Usually, it showed up when they accused her of cheating - or if she felt like showing off. Jack remembers the times they hadn’t been able to find one, when she’d demanded he or Gabriel take turns covering her eyes. Jack remembers a room, thick wth cigarette smoke. He remembers Gabriel’s smile, the way his hands had seemed so large, covering her face, and the way he moved with every lean or step or pause she’d made, never quite touching, like they were dancing. He could be so, so gentle, when he wanted to be.

“I watched her clear the table with a broken chair leg.” Jack says. If _that_ shouldn’t have been enough of a warning sign, when she’d dusted it off and cued up without hesitation… God, but Ana could hustle, and no matter where they were or who she racked up against, they never saw it coming, or weren’t willing to admit the pretty lady had them all beat before she even walked through the door. 

“She loved to take trophies.” He remembers a blue satin jacket, embroidered with black-winged birds all up and down the sleeves. Ana wore that one for years, until Fareeha borrowed it one day and never gave it back. He wonders what happened to it. “We’d walk out with meals, information, ammunition-“

“A car.” McCree says, and well, now - _that’s_ a story he’s never heard before.

Congratulations, Jack. Here’s your consolation prize, for all this surviving. A whole hour where it doesn’t hurt to hear about Ana, to say her name. McCree spins his stories out, and even Jack eventually finds the words to reminisce, until they’re all laughing at the night she somehow managed to win half a herd of sheep and then refused to leave them behind, Jack and Gabe both scrambling around a town that had already closed up for the night, trying to find a way to cash them out for anything more portable.

_“If worse comes to worse, I suppose we can always use them for Reyes’ dowry.”_

_Don’t know what you’re talking about, Amari. I’m worth at least a cow. Two cows. Besides, I’m selling Morrison first. Better price.”_

The sun isn’t quite up yet, when there’s a lull in the stories and Jack finally makes a risky, high-stakes multi-walnut venture that goes nowhere, McCree taking it all - as good with cards as Ana ever was with a cue. He tries to beg off when they finally cash out, mortified when Jack’s father insists on paying up.

“It’s not my wallet that’s sick, son.” His father laughs. Having a good time, and Jack owes McCree more than he can pay, just for that.

“Well,” Jesse says, chair scraping against the floor as he pushes away from the table. “Gettin’ close to dawn. I could, ah, whip up some _huevos_ , if you want? Promise to keep the salsa on the Midwest side.”

Of course, McCree brought a bottle of hot sauce with him, liberally and indiscriminately applied to everything the corn belt attempts to offer.

“I wouldn’t say no.” Jack says. The kid’s a damn good cook. If the Deadlock Gang had any sense at all, they kept Jesse around as much for the meals as for the shooting. Even his father seems interested in the idea.

McCree gets to his feet and goes inside, and then it’s just the two of them, sitting in the dark. Jack can hear the rattle of drawers opening and closing, the sizzle of something in the skillet for a decent amount of time, before his father finally speaks.

“It’s not going well out there, is it?”

Jack glances over. “Why do you say that, Dad?”

His father chuckles. “Everyone keeps reminding me how well it’s going.”

“Everything’s fine.” Jack says. This lie is so easy it might as well be the truth. “It’s all right. You don’t need to worry.”

His father goes quiet again. 

“I was never good to you, after your mother died.”

Are they doing this, now? As if it’s necessary, any fences that need mending around here are only the normal kind, just wood and nails.

“You were fine, dad.” Jack says. “You don’t need to - you did everything you could. We both did our best, we did everything we knew how to do, and then the whole damn world went crazy anyway. We got through it, that’s what matters.” 

It’s not like Jack ever considered coming back, settling down - or even visited as often as he might have - and now… well, now he understands, doesn’t he? 

“We never knew you’d be special.” His father says, with a soft laugh. “You know, some people, all they can talk about is how their kid’s a genius, going to grow up to be president, change the world? I figured you might be, I don’t know - lawyer, doctor,” he waves a hand out toward the fields, “something bigger than all this, maybe. I think your mother was hoping for an Olympian, of course. Not sure which event.”

“Just the one?”

His father shrugs, conceding the point. “Then there was all that government business, the Crisis… and now I see the papers, what they’re saying about you, after all you’ve done for them.”

“It’s not that simple.” Jack says. “The world’s… different now. Things have changed.” He’s not going to have this conversation, not here. He should talk to Harper, make sure to keep any further bad news from the door. “It’s all right. We’ll get through it. You don’t have to worry.”

“I’m proud of you, son. I always will be. Your mother… she was so proud.”

It’s so still here, just before dawn. If the sun never rose, if Jack could just keep living in this moment, in this quiet place…

“… it never goes away, does it?”

The days are Sisyphean. Jack can keep what he's feeling from overwhelming everything else if he puts his back into it, if he forces it away, but the moment he stops it just comes rolling back. Even now, the glow from the card game is fading and Jesse's in the kitchen opening cabinets and rummaging through the fridge and it's all endurance again, figuring out how to keep moving until the sun goes down.

“No.” His father says. “You find moments. You make it worth doing. Happiness will sneak up on you, eventually. It was good, with your stepmother. We loved each other, I think we made a decent life, but… no, it never goes away. Every morning, before I open my eyes, the first thing I do is miss your mother. Every day.”

“Mm.” 

His father sighs. “I suppose you just try to remember - you try to be grateful, for the time you were given. It would be so much worse, to never know what you lost.”

He’s right. As bad as this is, the thought of losing all those years, of living in a world where he never knew Ana Amari? Yeah, Jack will keep what he’s got.

The morning sky spreads out as clear and blank as fresh paper. The back door slaps against the house, Harper going out to milk the cows. Jack catches a flash of blue on the road - it looks like Tracer’s decided to make a jog of the journey here. Of course she’s a morning person - as far as he’s aware, Oxton’s an _always_ person - and Winston, lowering the door of the jet to stare at her blearily from behind his special gorilla-sized mug of morning brew, is most decidedly not. Within moments, Tracer’s pestering him, playfully flicking in and out around him while he sips his coffee and pretends to take swipes at her. 

“That… is a hell of a thing, son.” His father says.

“Yeah,” Jack says, “it really is.”


	15. Chapter 15

“… think they’re just going to keep trying, sir, until there’s enough paperwork that it starts looking like evidence.”

“Seems that way.” Jack says, reaching under his scouter, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Just keep pushing back, and let Athena help you fill in any blanks. Make sure nothing gets overlooked - and have a human signature on anything they might want to dispute. You need me, you call me, it doesn’t matter when.”

“Yes, sir.”

A good thing Jack didn’t have any plans for the morning, the sudden call and the subsequent meeting pushing well past noon. Jack had been expecting something like it, eventually, and he wonders if the legal team had put off contacting him until they didn’t have a choice. 

All petty shit, really - contesting Athena’s personhood on security grounds, trying to pull things to a halt until a few hundred classified files could be verified, when they were certain he wouldn’t sacrifice the hours - and so Jack sat there and called their bluff and went through them one at at time. The deal should already be done, but the more they try to walk it back the more Jack wants to make sure it isn’t just finished, but wrapped in steel and buried in concrete. He needs the ruling to be beyond question - reasonable doubt is a much slimmer margin when it involves the rights of an Omnium. 

Jack walks out of the jet and into the yard, and it seems that he’s got the house to himself. Harper and his father are out on errands, and then a support group at the church, and Jack bowed out for the team’s field trip _du jour_ \- apple picking or yard sales or some other form of professional time wasting. Reinhardt may have mentioned canoes, so there will either be a lot of pictures or a lot of diving for lost phones. Jack hopes they don’t wander past any livestock auctions - Oxton’s about five minutes from bringing home a llama for a souvenir.

He hears a creak in the floorboards from the back room, as he steps through the front door - not alone, then. Nothing back there, just extra medical supplies and random boxes that he hasn’t had the time to go through yet, but he’s not entirely surprised to turn the corner and see Mercy sifting slowly through another pile of Morrison family history.

Palliative care doesn’t sit well with her, no matter the circumstances - not that Mercy would ever say so out loud. Mortality in general isn’t one of her favorite things. Rationally, she understands the limits of the body, the reality of time and age and when prolonging life destroys the quality in it, doing more harm than good. Still, Jack’s resigned himself to the fact that if she’s there on the day he breathes his last, Mercy’s going to fight for him down to that last flickering neuron. At the end of the day, Angela Ziegler doesn’t believe in a natural order of things, and if there’s a greater plan she’s not impressed with the blueprints. Death is an enemy, a problem to solve and all it’s ever done is steal things from her that she’s not ready to give. 

God, but she has such beautiful hands - those surgeons hands, all precision and careful attention no matter what she’s doing. Jack hears the clink of metal on metal, and knows what she’ll draw from the box even before he sees the red and blue ribbons, slowly untangling themselves as the medals swing gently. Winter Olympics - one gold, one silver. He had wondered where they’d wandered off to.

“She wasn’t even a Morrison yet, when she won those.”

Mercy startles, and that’s such a rare thing he can’t help but smile.

“Jack. I… I didn’t mean to intrude.”

If that was true, she wouldn’t have come to Indiana - but she means well. Mercy always means well. It’s not her fault that… well, none of this is her fault. Time to man the fuck up, Jack, and have a conversation.

“These… were your mother’s?”

“The famous one of the family.” She had never been sentimental with her trophies. Jack has pictures of himself chewing on those medals as a toddler, remembers them hanging on the spare key rack, or cluttering up the junk drawer even before his father had remarried, and it had all been carefully packed away. 

“I didn’t know.”

Mercy looks back into the box. Draws out a few clippings, a magazine cover. The sponsorships that helped to cover trips and training. His mother could have had a more glamorous life, if she’d wanted it. At the very least, she might have tried - but she had never liked the spotlight. Jack got that from her, too.

“I suppose it doesn’t mean much anymore.” Just a name on a list, these days - and of course there’s that line in history, pre-Crisis and post. For a lot of people, everything before might as well have happened on some other Earth. What it means for Jack, though, is that there’s records, more footage of her remaining. Interviews and candid shots, and of course the races - every one they’d ever filmed. “I kept a copy of her run with me, during the Crisis. A good luck charm.” He’d watch it before the big battles, which of course ended up being most of them.

“Show me?” Mercy says.

He’s still got the scouter on, and it’s simple enough to project the video, large as life on the opposite wall - and then there she is, his mother preparing for victory, settling herself at the starting gate, the camera zooming in to catch her gazing across the slope, focused and ready. 

“Oh, it’s you.” Mercy says. “That look, right there.” 

“Yeah.” Jack says. He also has her smile. Everything they put on the recruitment posters, every time the paparazzi called to Jack from behind a camera - that movie-star shine all belonged to her first. Hell, even being on the SEP short list had probably been as much her doing as his - ‘Olympic athlete’ one of those things that caught the eye, a good pedigree for a super soldier. 

He doesn’t need to watch the run, Jack has it memorized, every turn and angle and spray of powder, the sun glancing off her helmet, the near-silent hiss of the snow as she moved low and smooth into the final straight. It doesn’t really look like much, honestly - she makes it seem easy, just one more trip down the mountain, and it’s only the official numbers at the top of the board and the medal around her neck, now in Mercy’s hand, that tell the real story. 

“Did she stop racing, when you were born?”

“Yes and no.” Jack says, and lets the second video play out and just explain it for him - the career-ending crash, not even a year later. Mercy lets out a hiss of sympathy as halfway down the hill a wobble turns into a fall turns into two brutally ugly impacts, with a painful moment of air in between, and then a long tumble, all hard hits at bad angles, one ski knocked free and sliding by.

“I was in there, for that.” Jack says. “She only found out she was pregnant while they were tallying up the rest of the damage.” Mercy gives him a look - she doesn’t say it, but she doesn’t have to. The same thing Ana said and Gabe said and pretty much everyone said when they’d heard the story - _well, that explains it._ Jack Morrison, pitched down a mountain before he was even born.

His mother hadn’t quit entirely - the Midwest wasn’t known for its altitudes, but there’d been trips out west, scrimped and saved for over the years - and she’d even taught him how, at least well enough to impress the brass during Arctic training. The crash had still ended anything professional, and she’d never really said much about it, but Jack wonders now what it must have been like for her, seeing that door swing shut, knowing it was over forever.

“Did she die during the Crisis?”

“Drunk driver.” Jack says. “The year before I graduated high-school.”

One of those things, just chance and misfortune and other people’s mistakes.

“It’s hard, at that age. Making sense of it all.” Mercy says, because she certainly knows. “I suppose it’s the same at any age.”

“Yeah.”

In a way, it felt a lot like it does now. Stretched-out days full of sympathetic neighbors, infinite ready-to-heat meals at the Morrison house. He and his father and the loss of her all there at the kitchen table, every single night, until it crowded out everything else. Jack had already been kicking around some vague future plans - student loans and community colleges, maybe - but afterwards he’d just been desperate to _go_ , as fast and as far as he could. Joining the military hadn’t been about patriotism so much as just to escape that ever-present grief, to sign himself away to anything that would send him as far as he could get. When the only thing he’d been to his father was a reminder of how much better things used to be. 

Once the Crisis hit, of course, Jack’s story was nothing special at all. For a while, it even could have been mistaken for luck - to at least die by something human, in a world that still made sense. He looks up - the footage has cycled into another video, his mother standing tall and proud, waving to a camera he can’t see. Everything’s changed so much, in the world. If she’d crashed today, maybe they could have fixed it. Who knows, Mercy could have had her right back on the slopes - maybe even competing, the argument over how enhanced an ‘enhanced’ human is as fierce as ever, especially with more and more people on the Omnic side of that equation.

Would she even recognize the world the way it is now? Would she still know him?

Jack lets the image fade away.

“Your father is in good hands.” Mercy says. “I believe Harper will be a fine physician one day.”

“He’ll be glad to hear that.” Jack says. “Maybe let him sit down first, before you tell him.”

Mercy smiles - but it’s not just a smile because it’s her, because she always sees more than Jack ever means to give away. He has to know what she’s thinking, what she’s going to do next, even if he doesn’t want to ask. Jack may have started this, but right now he’d rather be anywhere else. 

Which is why Mercy beats him to the punch.

“I thought that if you wouldn’t speak to me, maybe you would talk to Reinhardt, or perhaps even Lena. You two seem to get along well.”

“She’s a good kid.” Jack agrees, and sighs. “I’m all right, Mercy.”

No way that’s going to fly - Mercy’s had his blood on her hands too many times to believe the hype. 

“Jack, you can’t expect me to-“

“Angela, I _have to be all right_.”

It’s Mercy, so it doesn’t take much more than a moment for her expression to go from confused to understanding, and twice as alarmed as before.

“Jack, what is going _on_?”

What can he tell her? What can he say that will get her to understand and still keep her at arm’s length, far away from whatever consequences are on their way. “Mercy-“

“They came to me.” She says. “They wanted your records - all of them - and then they asked me how I thought you were doing. If I’d noticed any recent ‘aberrant behavior.’ Mood swings. Paranoia. Aggressive tendencies.” Her lips quirk at that one, not really a smile. “If I knew anything about the details of the SEP trials, the potential for long-term negative consequences. They wanted my professional opinion on the possibility of… neural degradation or chemical imbalances.”

Holy shit, they’re actually going for it. Seeing if there’s a case to be made. The poor Strike Commander, a danger to himself and others. A classic case of early-onset ‘lock-him-up-he’s-fucking-crazy.’

“What did you tell them?”

Mercy’s expression twists fiercely, and for a moment he thinks she’s going to slap him.

“Damn you, Jack. What do you _think_ I told them? I told them you were ‘fine.’ I told them everything was ‘fine.’” She lets out a bitter little laugh. “How else could it be?”

Good, that’s good… and he’s an asshole, for not trusting her in the first place, but there’s things she doesn’t understand because if she did understand - well, Mercy would try to stop him, which wouldn’t work, and so she’d stand beside him and that would be even worse.

Her hand is light against his cheek, barely touching, and it takes everything in him not to jump halfway across the damn room.

“Talk to me, Jack. _Please_.“

It’s hard to get a full breath, to keep his expression blank, all the locks and bolted doors and every nailed-down hatch he’s got inside all trembling, just for a moment, beneath her touch. 

“You’ll… be taking custody of a few things, in the next couple of weeks. I’ve spread the budgets out across your programs, I’ll get you the details on it all, soon. There’s been mutterings from overhead, they’re looking to make another round of cuts, and I want everything that I can get out of the line of fire before anyone starts moving.” 

Mercy’s also the executor of his personal estate, because he doesn’t have anyone else. It’s a good thing he’ll be dead before she can find that out.

“Jack.”

“It’s already done. I just need to-“

“ _Jack_!”

This was always going to be bad, because Mercy doesn’t take anyone’s shit - not his, not Gabe’s, nobody’s - and nothing intimidates her, nothing keeps her from doing her job - and somewhere along the way, she decided a part of her job was him. 

“Do you remember the night that we met, Mercy?”

She doesn’t want to give him any ground, but he sees something ease in her eyes, a fondness despite herself. “Tactical _zieraffe_. Nothing’s changed.”

Everything’s changed, she just hasn’t seen it yet.

“I told you that I’d clear you a path, so that you could do the part that mattered. I hope… I hope that I kept my word. I think we did some good work. I think it made a difference.”

She frowns.

“Whatever it is you’re doing, Jack, whatever’s this is - you’re not alone. We’re here for you. I’m not walking away.”

But Mercy knows the cost of that kind of stand - it’s the reason she’s kept herself so apolitical, all these years. Always an idealist, but never a fool. 

“Listen, we both know that things are… uncertain right now. You’ve always been the first to stand up against Overwatch, to challenge me when you thought we were going too far, when you didn’t agree - and right now, that’s what I need from you. I need to know someone’s going to be there, to keep an eye on the team.”

“Jack, you can’t just-“

“We both know there’s no precedent for half of what we’ve done over the years. There’s no framework that makes sense, not looking in from the outside. So they get to make up what it means, and how dangerous it is. I can go and put Winston in charge of Athena, I can give him all the titles I want - but who’s going to watch out for him? If this gets worse, if the politics keep changing - who’s going be there to step up for Oxton? Or Shimada?”

It’s a low, low blow, bringing Genji into this. He may have walked away, cut all professional ties and disappeared, but that doesn’t put him out of danger and Jack is certain she’s kept in touch. He’d seen it, those occasional looks, the way Genji could always make her smile, and whether or not there’d been more wasn’t really any of his damn business. They were all adults, and patient-doctor boundaries didn’t really mean the same thing, when the patient was a vaguely reformed professional criminal and a good seventy-five percent of him was the doctor’s doing in the first place. 

If she were ever forced to make the call, if she had to spend all her goodwill on one saving throw, Mercy won’t choose him over Genji - and she knows that he knows it. 

“I’m talking to Gabriel.” Mercy snaps. “This is ridiculous. The two of you, at each other’s throats? Now of all times.”

“He won’t care. You know that he won’t. He gave up on me - he gave up on all of this a long time ago.”

Jack wonders just what she’s talked about with Gabe, in private. If Mercy’s already had some version of this fight before.

“Hell, Angela, he still likes you. Maybe the two of you can-“

“Do you think I don’t see what this is? What you’re doing?” She says. “What am I supposed to do, Jack? Watch you keep going like this, until you go and kill yourself on some battlefield when you know I can’t get to you in time?”

It takes a hell of a lot to bring Mercy to tears, but they’re glittering in the corners of her eyes and - well done, Jack. Well done.

“I don’t… I’m sorry, Angela.” He takes a step away, a penitent hand at the back of his neck. “I’m not… I haven’t been… but this is just planning for the worst, all right? It’s what I do.” Damage control. His entire goddamn life, maybe nothing more than that. “It’s precautionary, that’s all. I know it’s been a rough time, and I’m probably just overthinking. Giving myself something to do. There’s no reason to-“

Her hand goes up imperiously, cutting the space between them.

“Don’t. Don’t say anything more to me, Jack, unless it’s the truth.” Mercy says, and smiles sadly, at the silence that follows, her anger faltering into melancholy, and then a hard resolve. “We’re leaving at the end of the week.”

“I’m glad you came.” 

It’s the only honest thing he’s got to offer. Jack could tell her she looks beautiful in the half-light, that she always looks beautiful, that he admires her as much as anyone he’s ever known. He’d do it all over again, for her. No matter how bad it gets, it’s worth it, if what he does means she’s out there making things better. Except then she really would kick his ass.

The screen door slams at the other end of the house, Tracer and Reinhardt laughing, the sound of more than one pair of wet shoes squeaking against the floor. At least someone had a good day.

“You wouldn’t have ever lied to her, Jack, the way you lie to me.”

Mercy wipes at her eyes, takes a deep breath as she turns away, and doesn’t look back.

——————————————

Farm work’s good for keeping occupied. It’s better that it never really stops, the rhythm of a steady demand. The reminder that things keep moving, the routine the same no matter how the world changes, and how he’s feeling is always secondary to what he can do.

The morning’s still a ways off, and Jack sees the ember of McCree’s cigar as he steps off the porch, the rest of him hidden, perpetually standing just past the edge of the light.

“Need a hand?”

Jack nods, even though it’s just the two cows, easy enough to milk without the machine. This particular pair are even-tempered, placid creatures used to easy treatment - barely blinking as McCree runs his metal hand gently along a flank, sits down and gets to work. He’s fast, and it isn’t long before it’s all done with, before they’re back out in the dark - still more cool than chill in the air, but the season will likely turn any day now.

“You did this kind of thing a lot?” Jack says.

McCree shrugs. “Farmhand, on occasion.” The glow of that cigar, in the dark. “… some rustlin’, now an’ then.”

A boy who had to grow up by himself, and fast. The kind of life Jack’s seen from the periphery, enough to have some measure of how it goes, but that’s nothing like trying to live through it.

“You don’t have much use for me, do you, McCree?”

He startles. Doesn’t answer. As if Jack has much use for himself, these days. Gabriel’s going to enjoy this report, probably kick back with a beer to celebrate. It’ll be like King Lear, with more farm animals.

“Your father, he’s a good man.”

Jack nods. “He is.”

“You should know…” McCree digs the toe of his boot into the ground. “Ah meant no disrespect, coming here. It’s not at all what it was about.” 

“You want Gabe to be proud of you.” Jack says. “You want to _make_ him proud of you.” McCree doesn’t move, or look up. “I’ve had kings pin medals on me and presidents shake my hand and it doesn’t mean anything compared to Gabriel Reyes calling me ‘one fucking lucky _pendejo_.’”

“He said you’d kick my ass the minute I got off the jet. If you let me get off the jet.” McCree says, carefully. “Still tryin’ to get my head around why you ain’t done it yet.”

“Ana loved you.”

It earns him a skeptical look. 

“That’s enough?”

Jack sighs. “Jesse, that’s pretty much all I’ve got left.”

Whatever McCree’s thinking, it doesn’t show. They’ve spoken more in the past week than they ever have before, the first time it’s ever been anything but a brief exchange of tactics and information. Jack still isn’t exactly sure why McCree’s out here, but if he wants to talk - what the hell, why not?

“You and Captain Amari…?” McCree trails off, the way everyone always trails off. Assuming, of course, but never quite sure.

Jack wonders if he got up the courage to ever actually ask Ana, or what brush-off answer she gave him - _“Morrison’s my pool boy. I like the way he looks in those little shorts”_. Maybe she spared him the withering look that usually accompanied those replies, that she had absolutely no intention of discussing it further.

Jack’s useless with words, the real ones. He’s even more useless with feelings, and now - what? He’s supposed to combine the two, try and sum up the truest thing he’s ever known? Billions of people in the world and he’s met more than his fair share of them and there’s never been another Ana Amari, never been a moment like that first day in Egypt. As if she’d been anything like a choice.

“You ever make a compass?” Jack’s already not explaining this right, but Jesse was hers too, and he at least has to try. “You take a needle, and a magnet - get all the little bits going the right way, and then… it just knows what to do, where to point. What matters.” Jack stops, until he’s sure his voice will stay steady. “I was never lost, when she was there. I always knew exactly what I was for, and where I was meant to be.”

“I still hear her sometimes.” McCree says. “Out on the range. Correctin’ me, when a shot ain’t perfect. Remindin’ me of what I already ought to know.” His gun’s in his hand, unloaded, and he’s absently spinning the cylinder, snapping it out and back with a flick of his wrist. “Sometimes I think I mess up on purpose, just so she’ll tell me off.”

Jack nods. He doesn’t hear her, not unless he deliberately goes looking through the old audio files, and he tries not to do that much, even with Athena ready to make it so it never happened. It’s hard to find the nonessential chatter, but it’s there, if you look: Ana being very particular over a lunch order. Coming up with names and stories for a herd of elk that had passed in front of her scope while she was camped on a hillside for nine hours, waiting for trouble that never showed. Humming absently to herself, more songs he never learned the names of. 

Jack wants to be up on that hill, stretched out beside her, warm in the sun.

“I thought that…” McCree starts, gun spinning back into the holster with the usual flourish, fidgeting with the brim of his hat, “I… ah shit, nevermind.”

“My father’s dying, Jesse.” Jack says. “I don’t see much use in talking around the point. What is it I can do for you?” 

“… why’d you stand up for me, after what happened outside Santa Fe?”

It takes Jack a few moments to even remember the mission that he’s talking about - this one far back, before Ana was gone - some other world and some other Jack. McCree had been in charge, and the mission went south in a spectacular enough fashion that the Strike Commander had been the one called to the carpet to explain. He doesn’t remember his own part being anything special, any more than he usually did - Jack read the reports, listened to the logs and tried to explain decisions made under fire to people who would never have to make them. 

“It was a shitshow. It wasn’t _your_ shitshow.” McCree had made the best of a very bad situation, and that was worthy of praise, whatever it looked like to the outside observer. Sometimes victory wasn’t nearly as impressive as avoiding total defeat. Not that Jesse seems convinced. Jack’s eyes narrow. 

“Did you think I’d throw you under the bus?” It’s not much of a leap, to wonder why. “Did Gabriel tell you I would? Did he tell you that’s what I did to him?”

“Did you?” McCree says, blunt and sullen - and tense, more than he should be. As if he’d been sent here as Gabe’s replacement in all ways, a chew toy for Jack to work over and spit out - god, is the kid _that_ scared of him? Is McCree sure he’s just one wrong word away from his own voyage through a windshield?

Jack looks up, out into the dark.

“Everything I know about how to command, it started with Gabriel Reyes.” He can see a few stars, and maybe a planet, low and bright on the horizon. Mercury, or maybe Mars. “‘ _El Jefe Motherfucker_ ’. Whatever they say about how good we were, I can tell you - we were better. We saved the world. _He_ saved the world.”

“So what happened?”

Untangle that knot and you could rule an empire. Jack has no idea how to answer that, little more than throwing a dart at his past to see where it feels like sticking. 

“I don’t know. Maybe…. it has something to do with the first time that the brass got pissed, when we put saving lives over retrieving data from an Omnium… or when we got the orders to contain rather than destroy, even though we were already winning, even though everyone would have been safer if they were just _gone_ … or maybe it was later, years down the line, when we met the men who scraped all the money off those bones - ‘captains of industry’ - and they didn’t care at all about the cost, and they never had.”

Jack hardly believes in good and bad as absolutes, but he thought - he’d hoped - there were some lines that at least had to be acknowledged on the way over, that it couldn’t be so effortless. As if there wasn’t a line at all. 

“… and then there I was, the Strike Commander, and one day things didn’t go to plan, and people died and I didn’t fix the problem - but they gave me a medal anyway and stood me up for the same goddamn speech, because what I thought mattered didn’t really… because the right people still got what they wanted.” Jack stops. “No. I think it was the first time that I _agreed_ to it, that I saw all the bullshit and the PR and I let it happen. I became part of the problem because if I didn’t ante up, I wouldn’t get to play at all.”

Jack doesn’t look, doesn’t really want to see the expression on McCree’s face. He’s probably unsurprised, probably wondering how it ever took Jack so goddamn long to figure out how the world works.

“I’ve killed you before, Jesse. I’ve killed at least a dozen of you, probably more like two or three, and those are just the ones I know about. I do my best - but I make mistakes. Or I don’t, and it still all goes to hell, and sometimes we don’t even have enough left to bury - and then the politics change, and Gabe - well, he’s intel. He knows before anyone, when his people have died for nothing.”

The accumulation of time, is maybe all it is. The consequences of a job where every decision was life or death, until one day there just ended up being too many bodies between them, to pretend it could be simple anymore. A point where every mission became one more nudge pushing them in opposite directions.

“He took Blackwatch. Back at the beginning - they offered it to him first, before they gave me Overwatch. At least that’s what I was told.”

Jack had asked him, hadn’t he? He must have asked. Maybe there wasn’t time, maybe he’d needed to get on the plane to the next disaster and didn’t catch his breath until half a year after the fact. He doesn’t know, he can’t remember and Jack has the feeling that not knowing really is the greatest sin of all. 

If he has to ask why it’s all gone so fucking wrong, Jack doesn’t deserve to be forgiven.

“Maybe they never gave him a choice. Maybe it pissed him off more than he let on, being passed over for his own second-in-command - or maybe now he’s seeing a little more opportunity in not being the one waving the flag.”

McCree actually flinches. “Ah don’t…”

“No, of course you don’t.”

Why would Blackwatch need to go down with Overwatch? Why would that ever happen? Oh, they’ll be ‘officially disbanded’ right along with the rest, drop the logos and the letterhead. Investigations will be launched - and then quietly closed, without any real conclusions reached. A covert organization can be exactly as big or as small or as culpable as it needs to be. Maybe they’ll offer up a few minor agents as sacrifice - whoever Gabe doesn’t like that day - but they’re not going to risk losing him, or McCree, or anyone who’s more useful as a tool than a scapegoat.

Maybe they’ll all just go freelance. Blackwatch will keep right on taking their paychecks from the same people who denounce everything they stand for. You don’t throw away talent like that for something as useless as public opinion.

“You want to know what happened? I was a shitty friend, when it mattered the most. Gabe needed me to keep watching his back, to pay attention to what was happening, what he was dealing with - but he didn’t ask and I didn’t see it. I didn’t see anything, not the way that I should have, and by the time I did…” Jack says. “I know I’m not what they say I am. It’s not the world I thought it was, when all this began - but I still have to believe in it. Even if I’m a goddamn placeholder, and they never intended me to be anything more… I have an obligation.” He sighs. “You do the good you can do, for as long as you can do it, and you just hope it makes a difference in the end.” 

_There is so much you don’t get to change in this world. That you don’t get to keep._

“For what it’s worth,” Jack says, “I’m sorry that you’re the one who got stuck in the middle of all this.” 

Jesse shrugs, with a wry, weary look, and Jack has the feeling he’s not even supposed to hear the muttered reply. “… ain’t like anyone’s going to let me go.”

Jack blinks.

“Let you _go_? Jesus, McCree, who’s keeping you here?” The realization comes easily - he is. Reyes may be McCree’s CO, but the Strike Commander is the head warden, and all of this is some perpetual, infinite work release program. Was that really the choice he thought they gave him? Is that what he thinks Jack wants? “It’s your _life_ , Jesse. You don’t owe it to anyone.”

McCree’s staring at him like he’s grown a second head.

“Blackwatch doesn’t own you. _I_ sure the hell don’t own you.” What was the damn point of any of it, otherwise? “Do you want out? Go work for someone else? FBI? Interpol?” Jack still has friends enough to manage that, at least. It’s not like it’s a hard sell - McCree’s proved himself, and his skills will recommend him wherever he goes. Hell, the rough background is a bonus in most circles, access to understanding that can’t be found in a textbook. “Or do you want _out_? Get a degree, start a business? Raise a family? Follow after Shimada and fuck off to parts unknown? Tell me how I can help you.” 

Jesse’s still staring, like Jack’s not using real words, and he turns away and kicks the ground and mutters something even more inaudible, but Jack at least catches one word clearly - “Overwatch”.

Christ, as if that’s a thing anyone wants anymore. He laughs, rough and soft, stunned. 

“What, you want to come and work for me now, Jesse?”

McCree’s still turned away, but Jack can see his face twist in a pained grimace. He thinks it’s mockery, he thinks the Strike Commander isn’t laughing at himself, at being here, at… everything. This life he’s living, this conversation he’s somehow walked into. At least he knows he can still be surprised.

Gabe will kill him, of course, but that’s hardly news.

If only Jack could give him Overwatch the way it should have been, the way it was once, the dream. Right at the start - full of promise, fresh from the Crisis with the whole world in their corner, and not this ship he’s preparing to go down with. It’ll take _years_ for Overwatch to fall apart, because Jack’s going to make it take years - but all that means is that he’ll get to watch the protests go from outrage to scorn, ridicule to indifference. Until no one remembers who Overwatch was or why they mattered at all - _Jack Morrison? You mean he’s still alive?_

He’s been lying to himself as much as anyone - but if Jack explains it now, if he says the words out loud then it’ll all be true - and there’s that part of him that’s still smart enough to take a step back, to ask him if this really is what it looks like, and does he gain anything from telling the SIC of Blackwatch any more about just how bad things are?

“Forget it.” McCree shakes his head, and Jack realizes the window to explain has closed. 

“Jesse…”

“Naw, Commander,” He tugs the brim of his hat a little further down, walking away, “jus’ forget I ever asked.”

—————————————————

“Hey, Dad. You up yet?”

It’s the day before they say goodbye - and Jack is going back on the jet, at least long enough to prepare for a longer leave.

“I was thinking about that garage door-“

Thinking about the excuse he’ll have to come up with, to return for the duration. First for the inevitable fight with his father over staying at all, and then just…. being around, for whatever comes next, for as long as he’s needed.

“… Dad?”

Jack stops. Looks for a while, at the small curve of his father’s body, laying beneath a quilt that was old when Jack was young. A feathered star, deep blues and yellow-greens of all shades, brighter in the places that worn and torn sections have been mended.

He reaches out for his father’s hand. Cold. Quietly checks for a pulse in two different places, just to be sure. It must have happened in the night. 

A thought comes, on the heels of that - calm and rational - and Jack gives the nearby medicine cabinet a quick, methodical shakedown, even though he’s sure his father wouldn’t have - at least not while the rest of them were here to see it. Nothing out of place, thankfully. It was all natural, and tidy - timely, even. His father dying as he lived - with the bare minimum of fuss.

The neighbors worked out a deal on the land a while ago, will probably tear down the house, for the acreage. Harper will move away, someplace closer to his school. Jack has no reason to ever come back here again.

He levers the bed flat, and sits down on the edge, takes his father’s hand again in both of his own. Jack’s seen a lot of ugly death, hard death. This isn’t that. It’s just an ending. 

“Okay.” He says softly, to no one. “It’s okay.”

He remembers a freezing day, and an old car - the damn thing still had _wheels_ \- and the way the spray of powder glittered in the sun as it flew across the windshield. The day his father had taught him to drive. A ridiculous amount of snow on an empty back road when he was what - eleven? Twelve? Jack had been sure he was about to put the thing in a ditch at any moment - while his father just leaned back in his seat and smiled, pointing toward home. So much confidence in his son. So much pride in the life that he’d lived. 

“Goodbye, dad.” Jack swallows hard. Twice. “Give mom my love, all right?” He pauses. “If you… if you see Ana up there, tell her I’m still fighting.”

It’s a simple funeral. Friends and neighbors. Psalms. Reflections on a good life well-lived. Dirt on the grave. The team stays, because Jack has good people, the best people. Mercy reaches out halfway through the service, and holds his hand for the rest.

In a little more than week, they’ll have this all to do over again - except for Jack, of course.

——————————————————

It’s only a few hours into the 275th day of the worst day of his life, and Jack’s in his office when McCree comes in quietly, and shuts the door behind him.

He’s not supposed to be here. Jack’s not sure where McCree’s supposed to be, but it definitely isn’t here.

“Athena, darlin’ - can you give us the room?” 

_What fresh hell…_ Jack thinks, with nothing but a quiet, morbid curiosity. 

“Commander?”

“Please, Athena.” Jack says, and hears the click as the door locks - and Athena’s no longer listening in or watching, not archiving this room in her databanks. Jack’s sure she still has them on bioscans, and has probably nudged whichever sensor it is that watches out for trouble a few nanoseconds closer on reaction time. She worries so much for all of them - her fragile, foolish humans who don’t have replaceable components or realtime backups or anything that might truly keep them safe.

“What have you got for me, agent?” 

What McCree has is a data pad, with only one image on it, because he only needs the one. Jack stares for a long, long time at the simple photograph of Gabriel Reyes talking with Widowmaker, and feels something break, deep down, in a place he didn’t know had anything left to give.

“… this could be faked.”

“Easy enough, I imagine.” McCree says. “But it ain’t.”

No. No, it… he wouldn’t do this. Gabe wouldn’t do this. Not Talon. Not after Ana. Did they get to him? Maybe they got to him. Except they would have got to McCree too, and he’s already had plenty of opportunity to take Jack out. 

Gabe wouldn’t do this. Not this. Jack fights the urge to put his head in his hands, to just close his eyes and wait for whatever’s coming next. He breathes out, slowly, hears something pop and crack when he shifts position.

“I’m going to need you to testify. If this is… you’ll need to stand up against him.”

“Yeah.” McCree says.

“It’s not going to be safe, wherever you are. We’re going to need to find a place for you to be until then.”

“Right.”

Gabe wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t. Except he did. He did. And there’s only the one place it goes from here.

“It’s all over, ain’t it.” McCree says, very soft.

“Yeah.” Jack says. “Yeah, it’s over.”

At some point, Jesse McCree agrees to stay close. At some point, he walks out the door, and around the corner, and Jack never sees him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. End of bullshit Morrison family headcanons. I actually never intended to write up a version of how things actually went down in Switzerland... but I didn't intend any of the last four chapters so...?
> 
> 2\. Don’t worry, Jack, I won’t make you have two meaningful conversations in one chapter again.
> 
> 3\. Thank you to everyone for all the kudos and wonderful, thoughtful comments. I am worse than ever about responding to people individually these days - I never feel like I’m saying things right, which mostly leads to writing and rewriting the same sentence before I just give up. I am profoundly glad if anything I’ve written resonates with you or feels true or just gives you something entertaining to kill time with on the bus ride to work.


	16. Chapter 16

“… so yeah, Dad, I guess by the time you’re hearing this, it should be just about over. I’m just… ah, real proud to be here.” 

It’s a lie, Jack isn’t much of anything except curious and restless and bored, staring out over the endless expanse of Undisclosed Location, Nevada. Still, he might as well sound enthusiastic for whoever’s listening in. It’s the last scrubbed, one-way phone call he’ll have, before they put all his possessions in a carefully labelled bag and he’s carted off to Can Neither Confirm Or Deny, and all the work of getting in finally pays off in seeing just what the hell he’s gotten himself into.

“I hope you got enough help with the planting, and you’re taking care of yourself.”

Jack considers, just for a moment, if things go as badly as some of the other recruits say they might - rumors of body bags, or so little left that they can just pour it all into the same one. He thinks about his mother, how he’d been up and out the door that last morning with a rushed, distracted goodbye, same as always - and then that was it. It’s not like they’re much for words, but… sometimes the end is just like any other day. 

“I, ah… I love you, Dad. I’ll call back as soon as I can.”

Jack hangs up, watches as dust catches dust, swirling across a moonscape scoured of life, the world as flat as a sundial, the shadows beneath the trucks and towers black as holes. If he just kept watching, he’d probably see the rotation of the earth, tick by tick. He’s alone outside, except for the guards at the far perimeter - they have to be for show, this place so flat they could see any unwanted visitors far enough away to launch a missile strike, with everyone inside more than happy to kick the shit out of each other for the right to stay. 

_“You think you’re special, gentlemen? You think we_ need _your participation? I’ve got a thousand people who look just like you, ready to step over your bodies to get inside. Reyes! Morrison! Fight to the death for my amusement!”_

It’s not really necessary, the whole angry drill sergeant routine, but they’re not even getting basic cable out here, so entertainment is at a premium.

Somehow, Jack’s stuck it out this far against guys older and bigger than he is, stronger and smarter with better resumes. Officially, they’ve all been dropped back to ground zero, everyone equal in the program. No one buys it, a hierarchy here the same as anywhere, Berets and Rangers and Seals mixed in among the newer recruits. It’s impossible to tell what will get them benched or when - a few of them disappear only to return just as suddenly, not talking about where they’ve been or why. Everyone’s secretive, jockeying silently for position - but half of that might be an act, too. Mind games, to find out who can’t handle the uncertainty. The way they train astronauts, calling them up at four in the morning just to see if they’ll get pissed off about it. So Jack runs and he fights and keeps his head down and doesn’t complain, doesn’t say anything except _yes sir, right away sir, thank you sir may I have another_.

He’s signed three NDA’s, each one thicker than the last, and all that on top of everything he had to sign on the way in. The waiver that gave them the right to poke his corpse indefinitely should he die in the middle of… the procedures. Plural. Side effects may include dry mouth, headaches, organ failure, permanent disability and or death.

Jack signs whatever they put in front of him. He doesn’t read it, doesn’t even hesitate because no one else does and he’s not going to let that be the reason he gets punted.

This is big. Whatever this is, it’s for real. Cybernetic enhancements? Genetic engineering? Deep space missions or fucking time travel, who knows? Maybe they’re just going to fill him full of viruses and watch them duke it out until he dissolves. The rumor is, they’re nowhere near the first batch of candidates for whatever this is.

_You can put forth a goddamn effort, soldier, or you can spend the rest of your life wondering what the winners are up to!_

The older soldiers all roll their eyes at such wild, sci-fi speculation, even though they don’t have a solid answer either, no more than anyone else. Nothing beyond what they were all promised - that if they reached the end of this, they would be the elite of the elite, and whatever happened after that would be worth giving anything to get it.

Jack doesn’t want to go back inside just yet, doesn’t want to have a hundred pairs of eyes all looking at him, wondering where he’d been and what it meant and constantly measuring him up against their own chances. It’s easier to stay out and walking the perimeter of the base. No matter where he looks there’s still nothing on the horizon but more nothing. 

It’s sheer coincidence he notices Gabriel Reyes at all, sitting in the shadows where two buildings meet, his back to the wall.

Even in this place where no one knows anyone, there are stories about Reyes, rumors even from those older soldiers who ought to know better. Supposedly he’s just another regular grunt, a career soldier with near-perfect scores - but the Rangers say bullshit and counterterrorism says he’s definitely FBI. CIA. Some clandestine spinoff that doesn’t even get a name. Jack doesn’t know where the rumors started or how, the speculation that Reyes is actually working on _behalf_ of the people putting them through all this, some internal vetting procedure. 

Or that Reyes is having an affair with the head nurse. Or one of the communications officers. Or both.

It could just be jealousy. Reyes’ name consistently hits the top of the rankings, no matter the challenge. He’s casually indifferent with his victories, no hint of uncertainty - as if it were easy, as if they’re all idiots for taking this so seriously. Maybe Reyes doesn’t know more than the rest of them, but he sure the hell loves acting like he does.

Decades later, when they’re different people, when they’re not even people anymore - that doesn’t change.

“It’s like a jar of mayonnaise got busy with a roll of reflective tape.” He doesn’t even bother to look up. “Fuck, I’m blind.”

“Up yours, Reyes.”

“Eat shit, hayseed.” Reyes grins. Jack has yet to have conversation with him that hasn’t started with an insult - some pretty creative, others from the ‘best of’ reel for flyover country. Never any real spite behind it - sure, Jack could get pissed if he wanted, and Reyes wouldn’t care, but he thinks that maybe he’s being tested, or that the other man is actually being friendly. Gabriel seems to be the most polite to the people he has the least use for.

That never changes much either.

.Jack drops down next to him in the shade, and it’s only then that he catches sight of what Reyes is working on. Hemming a pair of pants - well, doing something to them. Hemming’s the only word Jack knows that involves needle and thread.

It’s not exactly the covert orgy of legend.

“I uh… didn’t know you knew how to do… that.”

He’s good at it, too, Jack can see that much at a glance, Gabriel’s stitches deft and sure. He’ll get to see it a lot in the years to come. Gabe does it as stress relief, as habit. It’s portable and useful and wouldn’t you know, people stitch together pretty much the same as cloth does. That comes in handy later.

Gabriel grunts. “It’s better to know how to fix your own shit, than wait for someone else to do it.”

It’ll be five years at least, before Jack knows anything like the whole story of who this man is and where he comes from, in between the reports of trouble and increasing talk of something called the Omnica Corporation and the open-ended deployments that stretch out longer and longer and the realization that _this_ must be the worst of it, no _this_ must be it, it can’t possibly get any worse than… holy fuck.

Gabriel Reyes is all bits and pieces, gathered over time. The grandmother who took him in. The aunt who was always there, a schoolteacher who did all the dresses for the school plays and girls _quinceañeras_ for extra money on the side and baby there’s not women’s work and men’s work, there’s just _work_ , and I damn well didn’t work as hard as I do to raise another _malcriado! Tù oye_?

He listened. It maybe took longer than it should have, Gabe said with a small smile, but he listened.

All that’s for the future, though. Right now, all Jack knows is that a man with considerably more combat experience than he has is still stitching, head down, but with a tenseness in his shoulders that suggests he’s expecting some smartass comment, and that any mockery will cost Jack in parts. He considers his next words carefully.

“How many weekends you ever spend elbow deep in a cow’s ass?” 

He doesn’t know it yet, how rare it is to get that blank and blinking look that means Reyes doesn’t have an emotion pre-loaded in response.

“… bullshit.”

“Lots of it.” Jack agrees. “Mornings, weekends and holidays. Farming’s real manly work. Glamorous, too.”

He’s surprised that Gabriel actually seems interested, asking questions about farm life and country living while Jack explains the finer points of castration, insemination, and one memorable incident involving an inexplicably disappearing placenta. 

“Found it about three days later in the truck.” Jack says. “That was fun.”

“Jesus.”

So there it is, what the beginning looks like, two fools in the dirt with no idea what the world has planned, bullshitting about nothing until the shadow of the building stops being enough to keep the sun off. The only time they ever sat together in that wasted blank space, only a little while after that when all the rumors and questions and speculation stopped and the needles started. The grand prize. Doctors and tubes and careful calculations, time crumbling and burning away into white-hot agony, until Jack was reduced to a shaking, retching thing on a tile floor that couldn’t do anything but hurt. 

Jack figures Gabriel forgets all about the conversation- there’s more important shit to do - until the day that he tosses aside a shirt with a ripped sleeve, and it disappears, only to return again mended, with the tiniest of cows ambling along the path of the tear.


	17. Chapter 17

_“You want to beat a man, really make sure he doesn’t get up again? It’s got nothing to do with the ‘how’.” Gabe says, in some pre-op conversation in some dim back room, waiting for the action to start. “It’s about the ‘why’. You take a man’s why, and the how takes care of itself.”_

_Jack snorts. “It’s too goddamn early for anyone to be quoting Nietzsche.”_

——————————————————

He’s watching a man called Jack Morrison sit at his desk and stare at the wall.

Jack used to be better at this, used to live in that place where he could roll with anything. Twenty-five-year-old Jack Morrison would have already been moving. He could have shaken this off, at least for as long as it took to win. Twenty-five-year-old Jack Morrison was a cocky, ignorant little punk and he’d give anything to remember what that was like, to be that stupid and self-assured and wrong right now. 

A silent audience stares back at him from his desk, pictures of officials and dignitaries and people Jack knows are important because somebody said they were. It’s just slightly too much effort to reach out and carefully crush them, one at a time.

The datapad’s gone dark in front of him, and Jack has the impulse to smash that too, just send it right through the wall, even if it’s all the evidence he’s got that-

What. What does he have? Jesus.

He could call. Simple enough. How long has it been, since he’s actually dialed that number? One year? Two? Maybe it’s only a dead line, and no one told him that either. Or maybe Gabe would pick up. Maybe Jack would just say ‘So I hear you’re working for Talon now. Want to talk about it?’

He needs to be careful. He needs to be very, very careful because what happens next won’t be just a matter of dealing with Gabriel but with every agent in Blackwatch and whatever contingency they have in place for a moment like this - and yes, there is one, he’s sure of that. If Jack shows his hand too soon, if he’s not absolutely prepared to deal with what’s coming…

The clock is ticking. If Gabe doesn’t know already.

_If it’s not all a setup. McCree comes in, fakes this betrayal. You go public, it’s all bullshit, and Overwatch goes down because you took the bait._

Overwatch is going down, Jack, and it’s not going to be a slow bleed, not anymore. It’s going to be cameras and hearings and getting shredded across every media outlet down to the the subatomic level. By the time they’re done with him, it’ll be a shame the robots hadn’t won the war.

At least his father won’t have to see that. There’s no one left to-

Focus, Jack. Big picture time.

Maybe it’s _McCree_ working for Talon, and this is all set up to put Gabriel in the crosshairs? Maybe it’s the both of them, stringing Jack along for shits and giggles. He’s seen the kind of gaslighting bullshit Blackwatch can throw together when they’re feeling inspired. 

… or is this about Ana? 

Does Gabe know something he doesn’t, about where she is? What they did with her? Has he gone in as a double agent and told no one, not even his SiC? It’s not like there’s no precedent for that kind of deep cover, not like Gabe has any hesitation in putting ends over means and it would be the absolute best way to make sure Talon bought in. 

Jack wants to believe it. He doesn’t, but God, how he wants to.

“Athena?”

“Yes, Commander.”

“I’m uploading an encrypted image. I want you to ping me on the hour, with a backup to my bioscans. If I don’t respond - if anything seems off - lock me out of the system, and forward it immediately to Dr. Ziegler, Torbjörn Lindholm and Reinhardt Wilhelm.”

Jack’s willing to risk his own life, but no one else needs to go up against this blind. He wonders what extra subroutines Athena runs herself through, so that she doesn’t even sound surprised. 

“Official regulations caution against transmitting high-security data to former personnel.” 

“Understood. I’m signing off on it anyway.” Jack says. 

“Commander, if you would like to advise me of a danger profile, I can begin suggesting appropriate countermeasures.”

No, he really didn’t keep the near-omniscient supercomputer from noticing the ‘if I’m dead’ part of that request.

Is there any chance, any at all that Gabe hasn’t figured out a way around Athena? 

“Can you give me a location on Commander Reyes?”

“Commander Reyes is not currently in communication range,” - _of course he’s fucking not_ \- “The last point of contact was fifteen days ago, near Ilios.”

Slide off the grid, and even a multi-billion-dollar global network can’t do much more but search all the haystacks. Gabe’s spent how many years now, being professionally invisible?

“Pull up everything we have on his current mission - and I need you to send out a message for him, top priority. Tell him… crosscheck my communications, find the most irrational and demanding ones and use those as a template. If you ever heard him call me a prick after reading it - start from there. Ping him, and tell him I’ve got half the committee up my ass again because of something he did, and I’m pissed, and I want him here yesterday. I’ll meet him… at the training grounds, on the other side of the lake. I don’t want to do this with an audience.”

Far enough away, if things go as bad as they probably will. Not so far that someone won’t notice.

It’s the best chance he’s got, that Reyes won’t walk into it already knowing, that he’ll think Jack’s just being an asshole again. A half-decent setup still, for an ambush - but there’s not going to be a setup, because then Jack would have to tell someone what he knows, what he thinks he knows, and what if he’s wrong? 

_You really think you’re wrong?_

The best chance Jack’s got, the _real_ best chance, is to go to ground himself. Just disappear, track down the commander of Blackwatch as fast as possible and put a bullet in him from half a mile away. It’s probably the only way to get the drop on Gabe and even then the odds can’t be much better than average.

But there’s still that chance he’s wrong, isn’t there? That Jack’s too stupid to see the truth, that this isn’t what it looks like, and even if it is - even if - he has to hear Gabe say it. Look him in the goddamn eye. Jack’s earned that much.

_You don’t have to fight. Just… let it happen, let it be over. He’d probably make it quick. You really want to see the other side of this?_

It’s going to be bad. The Commander of Blackwatch working for Talon - _Blackwatch_ working for _Talon_ , and Overwatch as either a willing accessory or - at the absolute best - a dupe. Strike Commander Morrison, too goddamned stupid to see what’s right in front of him.

“Commander,” Athena says slowly, cautiously, “I have composed several drafts for your review.”

“Thank you, Athena.” Well, that took her maybe half a minute. He’s quietly bemused as he flicks through several versions of himself, each one bitchier than the last. He picks the one that’s both terse and somehow overdramatic, and hits send. Who knows, it might even work.

_Maybe you’ll get to bury him too. That’ll be fun._

By the time Jack comes back to himself, he’s well out of his office and down the hall, moving fast. The elevator door slides open as he approaches.

“Do you want me to run a maintenance check, Commander? You could supervise.”

Does he need another unrecorded lockdown, so he can lose his shit again? Athena’s invisible and omnipresent - she’s always hovering, but he isn’t imagining it either, that she’s been keeping a closer eye on him. An Omnium, loyal and wanting to understand and trying so hard to be kind. God, this world.

“It’s fine. I just... need a little exercise.”

He’s still grateful when the doors shut, lets himself lean back into the corner and does not think about Gabe bleeding out at his feet, dead on the ground or in some coffin and Jack having to stand there and say words and think thoughts and _pretend_ -

Deep breath. Let it out slow.

What’s the endgame? Jack can’t see it, can’t even see the edges of it. Sure, Gabe getting to royally fuck him over is a great bonus, but he’s just not _that_ important. It can’t be the whole… Talon can’t be - Gabe isn’t working _for_ them, Gabriel Reyes doesn’t work _for_ anyone, which means this is… what? It’s not about money - so, power then? For what? What did they offer him and what the fuck is this about and when did it start, and what didn’t Jack see that he should have and _why didn’t you come to me, what the fuck Gabe, Jesus Christ what the fuck-_

It would be good to go outside, maybe run up a mountain or two, but it's the middle of the night and it’d be too quiet out there, with just him and his thoughts and the stars. So Jack goes to the training room instead, and builds himself a little war to try and find the space to breathe. It’s self-indulgent, more time than he can afford to spend not planning, not preparing - but twenty-five-year-old Jack Morrison is as gone as if he never was, and the Strike Commander’s misplaced all the tricks he used to know for getting through nights like these and there’s nothing more Jack can do anyway until Gabe answers, until he comes back or he doesn’t, until they meet each other and see if anyone survives.

He’s still training, when the call comes along with the sunrise - from the UN, from Petras himself.

There’s been a situation.


	18. Chapter 18

_“… anonymous reports of the Strike Commander’s increasingly erratic behavior, the numerous open investigations into misconduct by Blackwatch, long considered the actual power player in pushing the various global agendas of Overwatch…_

_What of the supposed terrorist agency Talon, the convenient excuse for so many of the later-era sins of Overwatch? If they were truly to blame, where are their victories in the years that have followed? Where is the chaos Overwatch allegedly protected us from for so many years?_

_\- really believe that two men with that much power and knowledge between them didn’t have a plan? A random, mysterious explosion with no bodies recovered? Really? The whole damn thing was set up to fail, and they both knew when it was time to take the money and run._

_\- which, conspiracy theories aside, must raise the question of a potential Omnic role in the downfall of Overwatch. Certainly an organization which had the greatest concentration of hands-on experience dealing with the original Omnic Crisis would be a target for anyone seeking - if not revenge - than a world less capable of anticipating or responding to any future Omnic threats…_

_Who takes the blame for all this? Strike Commander Wonder Bread? The Great White Nope? What world are you living in? Gabriel Reyes had power, authority, and respect - do you really think they were going to let him keep any of it?_

_… like a man out of a different era. Whatever his ultimate culpability, it’s obvious that Strike Commander Morrison possessed very little of the political acumen that might have allowed for a different outcome, or at least a less disastrous final year._

_\- only unverified reports from anonymous sources, and nothing from those closest to the events, including Dr. Angela Ziegler, keynote speaker at the most recent Global Symposium on Biotic Research and Development. Although maintaining a consistent public presence through her humanitarian efforts, Dr. Ziegler has refused to answer any questions concerning her relationship with Commander Morrison or Commander Reyes, or her perspective on the tragic events that took place in Switzerland._

_\- considering his history, Strike Commander Morrison showed remarkable reserve and even delicacy in handling Omnic issues throughout his long tenure, not only with the tumultuous events in King’s Row but the eventual emancipation of Athena, Overwatch’s resident AI. Indeed, if the Strike Commander had relented to the very real pressures of those first years post-Crisis, there might not have been enough Omnics left to have a renaissance._

_… in the end, it seems obvious to all but the most rose-tinted nostalgia victims that Overwatch was a little more than a temporary organization whose best years were long behind them, dragged out past their natural expiration date._

_It is remarkably convenient, though, isn’t it? Losing the leaders of both Overwatch and Blackwatch - and of course, all of their insider knowledge - in a single, still only vaguely hand-waved ‘terrorist incident’. The UN has been quick to sidestep all questions, including those of whether or not the two occasionally combative leaders might have finally ended their argument in open war. The continuing lockdown on even the slightest details even now, nearly a decade later, and the frankly ludicrous cudgel that is the PETRAS act mean that it is entirely likely the UN will never have to answer for its role in the decline and fall of what was - however briefly - the most tangible declaration of actionable global unity the world has ever seen._

————————————

The conspiracy theorists are all over that last day, the final twenty-four hours of Overwatch, obsessing over the smallest bits of rubble and scraps of possibility as if they’d been there, as if it had all been theirs to lose. Jack keeps an eye on what they find just in case, the crowdsourcing with some potential even when half of them are convinced the Strike Commander was in on it all along, that even now he’s clinking glasses with Gabriel on some tropical beach somewhere.

Yeah, that would have been a much, much better idea.

What they don’t know for all their searching, what no one who wasn’t there knows about, is that very last meeting. So far off the books it probably never even took place. 

————————————

The hair rises up on the back of Jack’s neck, as concrete replaces sky and the car slides down into the underground lot. He’s never been much for this place, but now it feels claustrophobic, and he’s ignoring every instinct that tells him this is the very last place he wants to be. Of course he wasn’t privy to any more details on what’s happened or how bad - just the usual demand for an instant response because Jack’s on the leash and Petras likes to tug.

It was stupid of him not to grab at least a few hours’ sleep while he had the chance, a monster of a headache piling up behind his eyes, twinges of pain every time he blinks but Jack ignores it, like he ignores the gnawing ache in his gut. Shakes it all off as he makes his way through security. Polite smiles and good-morning-nice-weather-out-there. Everything’s fine. Everything’s always fine. Whatever has happened, however bad this is, there’s only so far south any one meeting can go and Jack can always throw his lawyers into the scrum afterward. 

All he has to do is kill enough time to get out of this, to get out and track down Gabriel - and anything after that will most likely not be his problem to worry about. Jack will never give Petras the satisfaction of a perp walk for his trophy wall, so let him yell and threaten and do whatever he wants. All he has to do is stay calm and make it through this, and - 

“Strike Commander.” 

Did this room always have guards, this many guards? Four men, two on each side of the entrance, and that ordinance is for more than ceremony. When did it change? 

Petras and his little wall of suits aren’t happy because they aren’t ever happy - but this time Jack barely notices, because it’s not just his table in front of the firing squad - and Gabriel’s loose-limbed slouch has always been easy enough to pick out from across a room, the line of his shoulders set in a permanent indifference.

Jack’s mouth goes dry, and in the space between breaths he locks everything down. It doesn’t matter how bad this gets - he was built to handle bad. If there’s a worst place to be, it’s his job to be there. Here. Now. 

“Sir.”

Jack’s used to seeing Gabe’s ‘you dumb shit’ expression, a hard and disdainful sort of pity, more familiar as the years went on - but when their eyes meet, Gabe looks… triumphant, the cat in the cream, a proud glint in his eye and Jack shows nothing even as he feels the dread seeping into every muscle, snaking up his spine.

Does he know? Why would he be here, if he knew? Why is he here, if he doesn’t?

Here’s the truth of it, even now. All Gabriel has to do is ask. All he has to do is say ‘I fucked up’ or ‘I got in too deep’ or ‘help me, Jack’ - all he has to do is look up and need him and Jack will have them both out of this room and gone and the rest of the world and everyone in it can just get fucked. If it’s anything other than the truth that he did this on purpose, with his eyes wide open.

Jack turns his attention back to Petras. “What’s the situation?”

It’s bad. It would be even worse, if Jack hadn’t been already handed the last page of this story just a few hours ago. If it wasn’t sitting at the table across from him, sipping coffee and looking bored as they listen to a team of NATO special forces that Blackwatch should have been supporting get ambushed and slaughtered to a man. Attackers unknown. Oh, the fuck they were.

_How did they get to you, Gabe? What do you know?_

The recording’s not fresh - a few weeks old. Recently brought to their attention? How? Why didn’t Jack know about it first? An op that's suddenly gone from unfortunate sacrifice to something far more sinister, in light of new information. Petras lets the tape run, audio and video both damning Reyes without ever having to say a word. The pre-mission briefing, the setup - and then chaos, increasingly fervent calls for backup that go unanswered.

Satellite views are better than they’ve ever been, these days. It’s easy to get in close, to watch people scramble and run and realize they're going to die. An entire squad wiped out in less than three minutes. The screen goes dark, nothing left to hear but static. Petras raises an eyebrow.

“Do you have an explanation for this, Commander Reyes. Were you and your men under attack, and unable to assist?”

Gabe leans back. “No sir, we were not.”

“Was there some technical difficulty that kept you from hearing-”

“Oh, we heard them.” Gabe says. “But I realized that there was nothing to be gained from losing another squad of my guys fixing a mistake we didn’t make, on a timetable we never set, so one of you suits could look good in your next report.”

Jack’s had this fight before - a thousand, thousand times - arguing back and forth with Gabe over following less-than-ideal orders and presenting a united front and he supposes he ought to have a scowl on his face, ought to look horrified or at least angry but this all seems so unreal now, like they’re under the spotlight in a stage play.

“You had your orders, Commander.” 

“I’m not the one who hangs on every dumbfuck decision you crank out here, Petras. That’s the other one.”

Theatre. All theatre, because Gabriel Reyes loves a show.

They’re sitting in front of a panel of people who want nothing more than to find the smallest box in the most distant corner of the world and put them both in it, forget they ever existed and Gabe hasn’t stopped smiling that small, self-satisfied grin. He’s not looking at Petras. He’s looking at Jack.

“They never made us heroes, you know. They made us weapons. That’s all they were looking for.” Gabe says. “The world doesn’t _want_ to be saved, Jack. Sucks, doesn’t it? I wish they would have told us before we spent all that time trying.”

“You’re in a very unenviable position, Commander Reyes.” Petras warns. “I suggest not making things worse for yourself.”

Gabriel leans back a little in his chair, staring down the committee. It feels like everything inside of Jack is folding in on itself, again and again and again. 

“I recently had the opportunity to sit down and… take stock. Of how I got here, and what it meant. Everything that I’ve done - for you, for my country, for the world.” Each word is slow and careful, the false levity slowly draining from Gabe’s voice, as if someone’s pulled a plug. “It occurred to me that after all this time, the only thing I’ve ever _really_ managed to do is protect you, and everyone like you, from the consequences of your actions. I’m the biggest, meanest dog you’ve got, to keep anyone else from taking what you think you deserve. That’s my legacy, _that’s_ what I’ve given to the world - shit, why don’t you tell me how I can make that worse than it already is?”

Petras takes a deep breath, steepling his fingers. 

“We’re moving forward immediately with a full formal inquest into Blackwatch - and Overwatch. As we should have done years ago. It’s time that you become familiar with the consequences of _your_ actions, Commander Reyes.”

“Sir, I…” Jack starts, but Petras speaks over him.

“I want them all here. Your inner circle. Right now. We’ll start with….” Petras flicks a paper on his desk. “McCree. Why don't you bring him in?” 

Gabe smiles, Cheshire sly, always full of secrets - and Jack knows, just like that. All this buildup - and there it is, there’s the punchline. Of course he knows. Gabriel knows what Jack knows. Gabriel knows _how_ Jack knows.

For those of you playing along at home, this is it. This is what the bottom looks like. 

Jack can feel the edge of his shirt scrape against his throat, when he shakes his head.

“… no.”

“They always choose you, don’t they? In the end, it’s always you.” The words are soft, bemused - but Gabe’s gaze is something else entirely. “Fuck if I’ve ever figured out why.”

They’ll never find the kid. They’ll never find a trace he existed. Jesse probably didn’t even make it out of the parking lot before Blackwatch or Talon or whoever the fuck it was took him out - he’s gone. Gabriel’s own hand-picked protege, executed without hesitation for… this. Whatever this is.

“No.” Jack says. “Bullshit.” 

The panel is muttering, confused and annoyed by his interruption, but they’re a thousand miles away. Only two of them are in this room, and Gabriel’s just watching him, all amused contempt and really, what did you think was going to happen, Jack? 

“No.” He says, louder this time. He’s on his feet, leaning over the table. “ _No._ Fuck you. _Fuck you_ Gabe, I don’t believe it.”

Distantly, he thinks he hears the guards adjusting their weapons.

_Be careful, Jack._

Ana’s voice, at last, the calm, quiet warning as clear as if she’d whispered in his ear. Oh God, Jesse was hers. He was hers and Jack let him die, let him vanish just like she did, like he wasn’t even fucking _trying_ and-

“Is there a problem, Commander?” Petras says, with all the bureaucratic, smug non-emotion of knowing he’s got Overwatch over a barrel.

The room is too bright for being this far underground, too small and getting smaller, and for a moment Jack wonders why he just didn’t pull out all the stops years ago, if this was what was always going to happen. He should have just gone for it, should have turned Overwatch into its own weaponized nation-state and just given them all the war they’re pretending this is. Oh, they’d learn the goddamn difference, if he gave them what they asked for -

“Commander Morrison?” Petras says. “Would you care to enlighten us?”

“C’mon Jack.” Gabriel says, calm as can be. “Time to be the hero.”

It’s not enough to bring it all here. It’s not enough to watch it die - Jack has to be the one to pull the trigger. 

_You take the why. You take the why and everything else goes with it._

“I believe…” He swallows. “I believe that Commander Reyes has been compromised.”


End file.
